


In the Depth of Winter (An Invincible Summer)

by Silver_Queen_DoS



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ambiguously Season 7, Book 5: A Horse And His Boy, Chekhov's Prophecy, Crossover, Cultural Differences, F/M, Golden Age of Narnia, Magic, Marriage, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24690415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Queen_DoS/pseuds/Silver_Queen_DoS
Summary: When the Giants start being driven south by the ice and snow, High King Peter Pevensie takes a group through the Wild Lands of the North to see what enemies have appeared.In Winterfell, Lady Sansa Stark meets some very odd guests.
Relationships: Peter Pevensie/Sansa Stark
Comments: 39
Kudos: 244
Collections: Just Married Exchange 2020





	1. Peter I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChronicBookworm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicBookworm/gifts).



* * *

The arrival of a Giant at Cair Paravel causes quite the stir. 

His approach is not precisely a surprise – a Giant is not a stealthy creature at the best of times and this particular Giant is making no attempt to hide – so there’s plenty of time for the King and Queen to plan a welcoming committee and feast. 

Given the size of a Giant and the amount that they can eat, the time for such a preparation is necessary. 

“Why do you think he’s come?” Lucy asks, half leaning out the window of Peter’s study, as if she can see Rumblebuffin from there. It’s unlikely, given that his study is facing the wrong direction. 

“I don’t know, Lu,” Peter says, as patiently as he can manage. He’s had to answer the same question so many times, from so many people, all of them anxious and worried. Narnians, as they’ve all discovered over the last decade, don’t much care for change. He can hardly blame them for it but it can be trying. “But he’s a friend of Narnia and a hero of the Battle of Beruna. He’s welcome at the Cair at any time.” 

“Oh, of course he is!” Lucy cries. “I should so like to see him again!” 

Peter can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “Let’s go, then,” he says, putting down his quill and carefully stoppering his ink jar. “We’ll arrange the welcoming party on the eastern ramparts.” 

Lucy darts ahead of him, eagerly calling the retinue of Narnians to join her. 

Peter stands to follow her and hesitates for half a beat. _You should wear your sword_ , Edmund’s voice says in the back of his mind. _The Giants of the Ettenmoor have been restless as of late._

But Edmund is with Susan in Calormene, attempting to organise an alliance and a betrothal, and not here to offer his advice and opinion. 

Peter leaves Rhindon on the sword mount in his study and follows Lucy through the castle. 

They convene on the eastern ramparts of the Cair, which overlook the bay and beach. The view is spectacular and Peter admires it while he waits. He thinks he can see flashes of light glittering off of mermaid tails out in the deep, can hear the distant lulling of their song carried by the gentle breeze. 

The height of the ramparts put them at nearly eye level with the Giant as Rumblebuffin approaches the castle. It’s much more suited to holding a conversation than making him crouch down to them and the clever architecture of the levels of the walls allows many of the other Narnians the same benefit no matter their size, from Phillip the Talking Horse to Lilygloves the Chief Mole to Flaxen the Talking Raven. 

Half of the skill of being a monarch of Narnia is simply finding the way to make everyone feel like an equal. 

“In the name of High King Peter,” cries Cair Paravel’s Steward, Wodengrim the Dwarf. Peter holds a brief hope that he will be brief, but he’s never quite managed to shift the steward’s love of titles and announcements, no matter how unnecessary it all seems. “Of the clear northern sky, of the House of Pevensie. The Magnificent. Ser Wolf’s Bane. The High King of Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands, Lord of the Seven Isles, Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Order of the Lion, Hero of the Battle of Beruna and Friend of Narnia-“ 

Wodengrim pauses to take a deep breath. 

“-and in the name of Queen Lucy, of the glittering eastern sea, of the House of Pevensie. The Valiant. Duchess of the Lantern Waste, Lady of Cair Paravel, Hero of the Battle of Beruna and Friend of Narnia, you are welcomed to Cair Paravel!” 

“Goodness me,” Rumblebuffin says, voice shockingly loud and booming. “Is that Queen Lucy? Last I saw, you weren’t much bigger than your handkerchief.” 

He leans forward, face coming alarmingly close to the ramparts, as if to help see them better. 

They must seem incredibly tiny to him, Peter reflects. 

Lucy laughs and throws her arms wide, as if she could possibly hope to hug him, and leans a dangerous amount over the side of the castle wall. “Yes! Oh, it’s been so _long_ , Rumblebuffin. Won’t you stay and talk with me? We’ll have such a merry old time. There’ll be a feast for dinner; the chefs have been cooking all day and I’m _so_ looking forward to it.” 

Rumblebuffin’s face splits apart in a massive grin. “A feast. For me?” he says bashfully. “You’re too kind. You know, they said – the other Giants, they said – ‘Rumblebuffin, they’re going to turn you away, they won’t listen’ but I said to them ‘you don’t know Queen Lucy and I do. I fought beside her in Beruna, you know.’” 

Lucy smiles at the compliment, but Peter can’t help but hold back a sigh at the confirmation that this is more than just a social visit. It had been a small hope, but a hope nevertheless. 

“Begging your pardon,” Rumblebuffin says, turning to him, “but I request an audience with the High King. If that’s the way to ask.” 

“Of course,” Peter says, “I should like to hear what you have to say. Why don’t you take a seat? I’m afraid the inside of the Cair is not sized for Giants but we shall simply have to have our meeting outside in the fresh air.” 

“Of course,” Rumblebuffin says, “I didn’t think I would fit inside your tiny castle.” He sits with an earth shaking thump, face vanishing suddenly from their sight. 

Peter quickly dismisses all the courtiers bar for Wodengrim and Oreius, the Centaur that is the Master of Arms, and the four of them quickly hurry down to a lower level so they may resume speaking to the Giant. It is not precisely the most _secure_ of conversations when anyone in the castle could listen in, but it’s not a fact that can be changed either. There is simply no other option. 

“So, now,” Peter says, in his most kingly voice to make up for the fact that he’s sitting on a stone wall with his feet dangling off the side like a schoolboy. “Why do you seek an audience with the High King of Narnia?” 

Rumblebuffin removes his hat and holds it in his giant hands, fretting with it almost nervously. “Well, you see,” he begins. “We Buffins live in the Wilds on our own, mostly, away from Harfang and the Ruined City. So we don’t talk to the other Giants much, not when they’re so nasty. But lately…” 

“Lately the Giants have been massing?” Peter prompts, as carefully as he can. 

The Narnians on the northern border have been anxious about it. Anxious enough to send flyers to the Cair to tell him, at great length at that, but there haven’t been any fights and no major incidents. So far, it has been minor – Giants trespassing and standing on structures that ought not be stood on, miscommunications and misunderstandings. But it is only a short leap from there to wilful destruction, to the murder of Narnians or cutting down of dryad trees for wood. 

The sorts of things that have happened before. The sorts of things that will necessitate a fight. 

“Not massing,” Rumblebuffin corrects. “No, no. They’re not gathering together. They’re being driven south.” 

“Driven?” Oreius repeats, crossing his arms. He looks like he’s glowering, but Peter can see the concern in his eyes. 

What drives a Giant south? What drives _many_ Giants south? 

A shiver of dread creeps up his spine. 

Rumblebuffin looks grave. “It’s the Tundra,” he says. “It’s been snow and ice for as long as I can remember, for as long as my mother and mother’s mother can remember. It’s been snow and ice for far longer than the White Witch ruled in Narnia. But lately… the Tundra has been growing. The snow and ice have been coming south, into the Wilds and bringing with them terrible things.” He waits a long moment and then says, “It is no normal winter.” 

“A winter,” Lucy repeats, quietly, all her cheer gone. “An unnatural winter.” 

They’re all thinking the same thing. 

_Like the White Witch_. 

* * *

Lucy manages to regain enough cheer to enjoy the feast, but Peter finds himself taking his cup of wine and walking along the shore. 

Shimmer, the unicorn that is so often his battle mount, walks with him. Her hooves are near silent on the sand, and she gleams with her own light. 

“Grave news,” she says, as he stares across the water in the growing dark. She’d been there, at the Battle of Beruna. She’d fought the White Witch with him. She knows what it will mean if there is another White Witch. 

“Graver than you know,” another voice says. 

Peter recognises it, bone deep, without even turning around. It summons a peculiar mix of hope and fear within him. “Aslan!” 

“Walk with me, O High King,” Aslan says, commands, and Peter falls into step with him without question or pause. He’s aware of Shimmer dropping back, silently fading out of the conversation, and spares a thought to hope that she finds Lucy – his sister will be sad if she misses Aslan’s visit. 

“It’s true then,” Peter says heavily. “It’s another White Witch.” 

Why else should Aslan be here? 

Aslan rumbles thoughtfully. “It is and it is not,” he says. The words should sound like he is equivocating and yet they sound like nothing but the clearest truth. _The same, but different._ “Jadis was a singular foe but the White Walkers are in her image and will be no easier to defeat. The Night King will bring with him the Long Night in the way she brought the Hundred Years of Winter with her.” 

Even after nearly fifteen years of the Golden Age, Narnia has not totally recovered from the long years of winter. They certainly can’t survive another one so soon. Peter has spent all afternoon trying frantically to calculate their supplies, their stocks, what they will be able to survive. 

Not enough. Not nearly enough. 

“Is there anything to be done?” Peter asks. Aslan is here. Nothing is hopeless. 

Aslan is silent for so long that Peter thinks he will not answer. 

“Narnia is safe,” the lion says, eventually. “I could not evict Jadis once she had gained a foothold here but with the rightful Kings and Queens — with two Sons of Adam and two Daughters of Eve — on the thrones of Cair Paravel… my power over Narnia is strong. The Night King and his White Walkers will never cross the border and winter shall not come until it’s time.” His voice goes ominous and deep, as if making a proclamation. “The sun shall rise and set each day.” 

Peter should feel relief at that. 

But the White Witch had ruled for one hundred years. Had been immortal as far as he understood it. 

A human lifespan was not so long as that. How long might the four of them survive? Fifty years? More? Less? And if it need be all four of them… 

What would happen to Narnia when they’re gone? 

“But can they be defeated?” he asks. “Only… it is not wise to leave an enemy to lurk along one’s border waiting for an opportunity.” 

Aslan swishes his tail. “I do not know,” he says. “It is through the rightful kings of Narnia that I grow strong. I have no rights to the Ettinmoors, to the Wild Wastes of the North, to the Unnamed Tundra, to the North or Beyond the Wall, and so I have no power over them.” 

Peter is silent. He does not understand, not truly. He knows there are rules, are things like the Stone Table and the Deep Magic that even Aslan cannot disregard. But hadn’t they been named the rightful kings and queens of Narnia because Aslan said they were? 

“Well,” he says, slowly. “Would you have the power to defeat them, as you did the White Witch, if we became the rulers of those lands?” 

Aslan doesn’t snarl, not exactly, but Peter still feels the entire weight of his disapproval, great and terrible. 

He’s reminded, sharply, of what Mrs Beaver had said all those years ago; _if there’s anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they’re either braver than most or just plain silly_. He has never forgotten that Aslan is not a tame lion, but at the same time… 

“Did I name you,” Aslan says, lowly, “Peter the Conqueror?” 

Peter swallows, ashamed. “I didn’t think of it like that,” he says, weakly. 

It’s a poor excuse and a pitiful one for a king. Narnia has happily accepted them as Kings and Queens at Aslan’s say so — with the worst of the reception being the an almost baffled disinterest from people who didn’t really understand what Kings and Queens were even for — but it was unlikely that the Ettinmoors would be so accommodating. 

It _would be_ a conquering. 

It’s so— 

There has been fighting in Narnia since the Battle of Beruna. Nothing major — scuffling with the creatures that had made up the White Witch’s army, leadership conflicts within the Minotaur clans, forging peace between the Red Dwarves and Black Dwarves — but it has been enough to show him that peace is not always so easy to _keep_ as it is to win. 

If they conquered the Ettinmoors it would be a constant struggle to get the Giants to listen, constant fighting to enforce their rule. 

Peter doesn’t want that. 

“No,” he says, walking along the beach with Aslan at his side. “No, I am not a conqueror. I only wish to ensure the safety of Narnia, now and forever. And it does not sit right that we might hide here, safely, while others suffer at a threat we know well.” 

Would Narnia block the threat from the nations to the south? Would it protect Archenland and King Lune’s subjects? Or would it simply go around them? What of the Mer-people nation, or the Lone Islands or the Seven Isles? They are part of Narnia but not of the mainland — does the protection stretch to them? 

“You are a credit, High King,” Aslan says, sounding proud and sad all at once. “But I cannot help.” 

Plans are already percolating in Peter’s mind. “Then I will go,” he says, “and see what threat lies to the North and what help we may provide.” 

It seems strange to him that it feels so right when Aslan himself does not endorse it. Daunting, to go beyond Aslan’s will, like exploring a new frontier. And going north will indeed be a new frontier itself. 

And yet, Peter knows within his heart that it is _right._

* * *

“You’re going to tell me to stay here, aren’t you?” Lucy says, voice accusing. 

Peter hesitates, briefly. “Yes,” he allows. “Someone ought stay in Cair Paravel. It wouldn’t do any good for us all to be gone. And Su and Ed haven’t sent any messages from Calormene in weeks. I worry something has happened.” 

Lucy huffs but she must know he is right. “Oh, alright,” she mutters. “What a beastly thing. But next time there’s an adventure, I’m the one who’s going.” 

Peter smiles at her, terribly fond. “Once this is all over, you can take the Splendor Hyaline on the royal tour of the islands, if you like,” he promises. “I know you enjoy sailing the most of all of us.” 

Lucy seems appeased. “And Aslan is here,” she allows, because it seems as if Aslan has decided to stay for some time. “We shall have a grand time together.” 

It’s not the first time that Aslan has visited them, since the White Witch’s defeat, but each time is rare and special. In a way he does envy her the chance, probably about as much as she envies him the chance to go. 

“I shall have to send word all over Narnia,” Peter says gravely, beginning to consider the logistics of it all, “to raise a force that wishes to travel north and to warn those who remain of the danger. I shall leave Phillip here as acting Master of Arms, for I wish to take Oreius with me. If anyone understands how to fight beings like the White Witch, it is him.” 

“Spottedjaw and Silentpaw will want to go,” Lucy says, naming the Leopard standard bearers. They have stayed faithfully at his side, ever since the Pevensies had found Aslan that very first time. 

“Oh, I imagine lots of them will want to go,” Peter confesses. “There’s never any shortage of volunteers.” Sometimes they have more enthusiasm than skill but that has never been a disqualification for a Narnian. Enthusiasm really does count for a lot. “I shall have to send Rumblebuffin back to the Giants to ask for permission to travel through the Ettinmoors and the Wilds. And to ask if any of them wish to accompany us.” 

“The Giants?” Lucy asks, somewhat doubtfully. “Of course Rumblebuffin is lovely and I’m sure the rest of the Buffins are just as good but…” 

Peter nods. “Oh, I know,” he says, ruefully. “But I think they’ll be dead useful to have on our side. And better to have them looking north and fighting this Night King than coming south and fighting us.” 

Aslan had said that the White Walkers would not touch Narnia but that didn’t include the Giants. Asking them to fight alongside Narnia might not make them allies in the long term — and Peter isn’t sure they could be trusted as allies long term — but that’s no call not to make an effort. 

The next week is a flurry of organisation. Peter asks messengers — Magpies and Ravens and Robins and Sparrows — to fly to the corners of Narnia and the Dryads in the trees pass word along on the wind. It results in a terrible flurry of visitors to Cair Paravel and Peter and Lucy hold audiences each day, reassuring those who come that the danger is distant, that they’re all going to be okay, that the endless winter has not come again. 

It pushes his patience to repeat it so many times when no one seems to believe it but Peter loves all his subjects _even_ _when_ they’re being silly and doom prophesying. 

In the end, he puts together a party of only about thirty. Oreius the Centaur and Shimmer the Unicorn are both a given and as Lucy suggested the two Leopard standard bearers leap at the chance. Softgrumble the Bear waffles about the cold and hibernation but agrees that even a hibernating Bear cannot sustain another hundred year winter and they must take action first. Dartfeather the Grphyon takes charge of the airborne volunteers. There’s a young bull Minotaur with a heavy axe and a goat legged Satyr who bounces nimbly around the Cair. 

And there are two Wolf sisters, Grim and Growl. 

The other Narnians give them a wide berth. It’s been fifteen years since Maugrim worked as the White Witch’s enforcer — a generation by most accounts and more than a generation for several species of Talking Animals — but Narnians have long memories and longer grudges. 

“We’ll go north through the Owlwood,” Peter says, laying out their route on a map. “We’ll cross through the Harpies Roost, then ford River Shriggle west of the Northern Marsh. Rumblebuffin will meet us there with whichever Giants will join us and escort us north through the Ettinmoors.” 

Oreius crosses his arms. “The Harpies won’t like that,” he says, shrewdly. “Us bringing a fighting party near their lands.” 

Peter nods. “I know,” he says. “I’ve asked the Dryads to pass on the message and when we get close I will treat with them and ask them to allow us across their lands. If not, we can go around and ford the river nearer the mountains.” 

It would take longer, but it would not be a _terrible_ detour. 

None of the Narnians protest further, though none look particularly happy with it. Peter himself isn’t particularly happy with it, even nearly a week later when he’s standing near the dark and foreboding trees of the Harpies Roost. 

A deathly scream echoes through the trees, ringing high into the sky. Peter keeps his hands clear of his sword, no matter that every instinct tells him to draw it. 

He comes in peace. He cannot do that with drawn steel. 

“Roostmother!” he calls into the trees. They seem to swallow his voice, no matter how much experience he has at making it ring out across a battlefield. “The High King of Narnia asks for passage through your forest!” 

A second scream rings out. Then a third. Then another until the whole forest is alive with the sound of Harpy calls. 

There’s a flutter of dark wings and something heavy thunks into the ground. It is not the graceful landing of an eagle or the controlled ferocity of a Gryphon but a forceful aggressive slam of something dark and brutal. 

The Harpy is bat-like, with thin dark fur and leathery wings, yellow eyes and sharp needle-like teeth. Her short black hair hangs around her face, not obscuring the glare on her face. “Skynest has obeyed the treaty,” she hisses at him. “No hunting the Sons of Adam. No eating the small talkers. And yet the King still comes with swords bared.” 

“My sword is not bared,” Peter says patiently. “We are not here to fight the Harpies. We’re travelling to the Ettinmoors and wish for your permission to go through the Harpies Roost.” 

Harpies Roost is the barely passable cliff-ways and forest at the edge of Narnia and the Ettinmoors. Technically Narnia, perhaps, but if the Wolves are distrusted because of siding with the Witch then Harpies are much more so — like the Giants, they have historical reputations for eating Narnians, human or otherwise. If they could be run from Narnia, most of the Talking Animals would be happy to do so. 

The Harpy hisses, low and long. “Nightflyer will speak with the Roostmother of Skynest,” she says. “The King will wait.” 

She leaps into the sky with a forceful, angry beat of her wings and disappears from sight. 

“That went well,” Peter says brightly to the contingent of shuffling Narnians waiting behind him. 

None of them look like they agree with him. 

Nightflyer doesn’t make them wait long. There are more screaming calls through the cliffs, more rushing sounds of wind over wings and things moving through the sky, and she crashes back down into the dirt in front of them. 

“Roostmother says the King may pass,” she says ungraciously. “But the King must bare no sword and harm none.” 

Peter nods, regally. “Those terms are accepted,” he says. 

“Nightflyer will accompany you,” the Harpy says. She bares her needle-teeth. “Do not stray from the path.” 

She leaps to the nearest tree and perches against the trunk sideways like gravity has no effect on her and gestures imperiously for them to follow. 

Peter takes a deep breath and steps forward into the Harpies Roost. 

Despite the oppressive feeling of being watched, they make it through. It’s colder here, snow starting to pile up around branches and tree trunks, crunching underfoot on the path. The seasonal trees are starting to go bare and dead. 

“Thank you for your guidance,” Peter says to Nightflyer when they exit the other end. He can see Rumblebuffin and at least five other Giants waiting for them across the River Shriggle. “We may pass this way again, as we return, though I couldn’t say when that shall be.” 

“Nightflyer will accompany you,” she repeats, baring her teeth at him as if he is attempting to renege on their deal. “The Harpies will know what business the King has in the north.” 

Peter thinks about arguing. It is most certainly going to make this trip uncomfortable and he can already feel Oreius glaring at him. 

“Of course,” he says graciously. “I hope you are well prepared for the cold and a long journey. We shall be some time, I think.” 

Ultimately, it is probably better to have her come. It is a motion of trust by the Harpies — or if not trust then at least cooperation, some semblance that they are part of Narnia, are one of its people, and have any interest in the doings of the rest. And the more people that know of the threat in the north, the better. No one can say that the Harpies are not warriors. 

Of the Giants, one is Rumblebuffin’s brother Tumblebuffin who seems as good a soul and in as cheerful spirits as his brother. The others are of different Giant families and clans, one even from Harfang itself, who are most certainly _not_ in good spirits. 

But they do know the Ettinmoors and the Wild Lands of the North and lead the party with unerring accuracy north to the Unnamed Tundra. They stick to the coastline, which eventually curves east, as though they have reached the very top of the Great Eastern Ocean. 

“People to the east,” the Giant Shatterbone grunts. He claimed that in his youth, five or six hundred years ago, he’d travelled this way. There had been other Giants there, he’d said. And other small men. 

It’s in the Unnamed Tundra that they first encounter the enemy. 

Unlike the White Witch, the creature that must be a White Walker makes no attempt to communicate or parlay. It — he? — does not speak at all, merely makes clicking, gasping sounds like ice cracking. The people he commands have eerie blue glow to their eyes and do not respond to any attempts to communicate. 

It is a terrible, confusing fight and it stops suddenly when Peter strikes the White Walker’s head from its shoulders with a sweep of Rhindon. 

“They’re all dead,” the Wolf Grim says, hackles raised. She sniffs at one of the bodies lying discarded in the snow. “They were dead before we started fighting.” 

Peter glances at them all uneasily. 

_When a willing victim who had committed no treachery was killed in a traitor’s stead,_ Aslan had said, years and years ago, when he had died and still lived _, the Stone Table would crack and Death itself would start working backwards._

Aslan would not have caused such a thing, surely, nor allowed it to go unaddressed if it had been related. _Surely._

“We should bury them,” Peter says. “Whatever evil has happened to them, they deserve that much respect from us.” 

It is no easy work to dig graves in frozen soil but there is little that can stand against the might of a Giant and those of Narnia were strong beyond expectation. Frozen ground or no, they work hard to make an appropriate resting place for the dead. 

It is not the first funeral Peter has given but it is the first for so many whose names he does not know. “Rest peacefully in Aslan’s country,” he says and means it. Whoever they were and whatever happened to them, they deserve that much. “In the name of Peter, High King of Narnia, I command you to walk this land no more.” 

Later that night, when they have made camp and set up a heavy watch, feeling grim and out of sorts, Oreius comes to him as he sits beside the campfire. If he stares too long at the flickering flames, they almost look like shapes. 

“They died easily enough,” Oreius confides. “But morale will suffer hard if we must fight that which is already dead.” He runs a whetstone along his blade. “Especially those that do not carry arms and must attack with teeth and claw.” 

“We must focus on the White Walkers,” Peter agrees. “For the dead seem to stop when they are killed. I wonder… if that is equal to the stone spell the Witch used? They do not seem to have wands as she did, nor such powers to freeze men where they stand.” 

“Lucky for us,” Oreius concedes, stamping his back hoof. 

“It only seems more important now that we find out the cause of these White Walkers,” Peter says. “We must keep going east.” 


	2. Sansa I

When Sansa is given word that Jon is bringing an ‘odd group’ to Winterfell, she expects more Wildlings. Who else would he have met, north of the Wall? Wildlings seem to be the only real possibility. She’s not precisely happy about it — their stores are taxed as it is — but she can hardly begrudge them, either. The Wildlings have no choice but to come south, as the winter encroaches and the wights and White Walkers become more of a threat. And at least the Free Folk believe they _are_ a threat and are prepared to fight. 

She assembles a welcoming party in the courtyard; a group that is by rights too small and insignificant for the King in the North. But she knows Jon would not appreciate her pulling men from their jobs for courtesy alone, and truthfully, they have few enough to spare and too much work to be done to repair the castle and make it fit for the winter. 

She does not expect— 

Jon comes in first, the fur cloak she made him pulled tight around his neck to keep the cold off. His ranging party trails after him, and Sansa is absently pleased to see that they've all made it back — they can ill afford to lose skilled men and can even less afford to lose friends. 

But walking next to Jon is a stranger. A man, tall and golden haired and noble. He looks like a knight of a storybook and reminds her vividly of the first time she had seen Jaime Lannister here in this very courtyard. Her heart still beats faster, even though it has been a long time since then and that small, foolish girl had been so bitterly disappointed in golden knights. 

He’s dressed finely but strangely light for such a day — in linen and leather dyed a strong burgundy red, a sword belt embellished with gold. He has a red cloak thrown over top and his hands are gloved but those are the only concessions he seems to give to the cold. 

Sansa is a Stark and ice runs through her veins but even she acknowledges that winter has come in the North. The southerners huddle in their cloaks and run from building to building to escape the chill wind. Even the wildlings, used to the ice and snow, draw their furs tightly around themselves. To see a stranger who appears to be no more discomforted than if it were a brisk spring morning is… strange. 

But he’s hardly the strangest of the group. She thinks at first glance that the man to his right is mounted on a horse, but… no. He _is_ half a horse, a human torso rising where the shoulders and neck of an animal should be. Her eyes dart over the rest of the group — a man with legs of a goat, a short woman not unlike Tyrion, a bear walking on hind legs, wolves and great cats and a man with a heavy bulls head on his shoulders instead of a face. 

_Courtesy is a lady’s armour,_ she reminds herself, fighting to keep her face smooth as she curtsies. “The King in the North has returned!” she says. “Welcome to Winterfell, my lord.” She meets Jon’s gaze and tries to ask with her eyes what is going on. 

Jon looks vaguely sheepish but _that_ is no different to normal. 

“My sister, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell,” he introduces her. “This is King Peter Pevensie of Narnia.” 

“ _High King_ ,” the great spotted cat says, somewhat testily. “High King Peter of the House of Pevensie and the clear northern sky. The Magnificent. Ser Wolf’s Bane. The High King of Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands, Lord of the Seven Isles, Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Order of the Lion, Hero of the Battle of Beruna and Friend of Narnia.“ 

Sansa _stares_. Far more than politeness would dictate. 

“High King,” Jon repeats, as if he isn’t totally thrown by the cat speaking. With words. Like a person. “He and his party come from a land somewhere far beyond the Wall.” 

The High King bows towards her in greeting. “We too have been troubled by the White Walkers,” he says. “So we ventured far across the snow to discover what we could of their origins. Their existence is… troubling.” 

“I… see,” Sansa manages to say. She curtsies again, for lack of else to do. 

One of her attendants brings forth the bread and salt — sent for as soon as Jon had indicated they would have guests — and Sansa gratefully takes the bowl into her hands. It is not, perhaps, the quality of bread one should present to a king, but it is fresh and Sansa can do no better than that at present. “Then I also welcome you to Winterfell, your grace. I hope we can be of much assistance to each other.” 

“Well met, Lady of Winterfell,” he says in return. “We are much obliged to your hospitality.” 

There is a long, still silence. The High King does not move. After a brief pause, he looks sideways at the horse-man beside him, around the courtyard, then upwards to the sky, as if seeking something. 

Sansa’s heart sinks. Are they refusing guest right? Why? What could that possibly earn them? Even as they have _said_ they accept… She chances a glance at Jon, who is frowning uneasily. She catches the barest glimpse of movement beneath his cloak as one hand moves to the hilt of his sword, and it reassures her not at all. 

“I must beg your pardon, my lady,” the High King says. He spreads his hands wide, palms up and empty. “I would not have you think that those from Narnia are uncivilised but I know not what it is you are waiting on.” 

Sansa sucks in a startled breath. Even the Free Folk, from so far beyond the Wall, follow guest right. Even the Ironborn, who spit on every other custom. 

She can feel the tension in the courtyard as though it is a palpable thing. If these strangers do not know of guest right, can they even be trusted at all? 

If she lets them into her castle, is she inviting death? 

"I—" she says, almost faltering. “Bread and salt. As host, as the Lady of Winterfell, I invite you to eat of our table, to share our food. And with that invoke the guest right, invoke an agreement of safety, so that neither host nor guest shall draw swords against each other for the duration of your stay. For that is the most grievous crime in the eyes of all gods and men.” 

“I should say so,” the High King says, nodding at her explanation. “That would be a shocking breach of hospitality. No Narnian would be so rude as to turn against one who has welcomed them as a friend.” He makes a short motion towards the bowl in her hands. “Should I…?” 

“Please,” Sansa says, feeling relief. Perhaps it is simply the _form_ of invoking guest right, not the concept itself. She hopes. They have more than enough troubles without needing to guard against those _inside_ Winterfell. “Take a piece of bread and a pinch of salt.” 

The High King does and eats, before taking two more before she can stop him. But he holds one in each hand and kneels, and the two giant cats beside him each eat a piece of bread and salt from the palm of his hands. 

“Right,” he says to his retinue, as if a king kneeling to feed his own subjects is normal. Surely, even in a land of animals that _talk_ that cannot be so. “Lady Sansa has most graciously invited us to partake of her food! It is our honour to accept. Please, those with opposable thumbs help those without.” 

“Please,” Sansa repeats again, feeling like a broken doll. A little songbird in a cage, chirping niceties. _Sing, little bird._ It jars her out of her stupor. If she just treats them as any other guest— 

“I shall have rooms arranged for your party.” She passes the bowl of bread and salt to her attendant to continue and speaks hurriedly to the servants — telling them to arrange rooms, to take the guests to the Great Hall after bread and salt — before pulling Jon aside to talk. 

“They can kill them,” he whispers to her, hushed and glancing back at the High King and his strange party of beasts. “The King’s sword might be Valerian Steel, but the animals can fight the wights and White Walkers too. By their telling, they’ve travelled through the Frostfangs for weeks and lost not a single fighter. And, Sansa, they have giants with them. I asked them to stay back until we had your welcome, but… they’re… gigantic.” 

Jon looks at her, almost helplessly, as if he knows the words are not enough to convey to her what he's saying. “If there are more like them… we might stand a chance.” 

Sansa nods, slowly, trying to tamp down the spark of hope that tries to flare up. Potential allies, appearing out of thin air just when they need them the most. It seems too good to be true, and so… it most likely is. “And what do they want in return?” she asks. 

Jon hesitates. “So far all they’ve asked after is information on the White Walkers. It sounds as though they were in the same boat as us — the people living north of them were being driven down by the cold and wights. But instead of fighting them, as we did the Free Folk, they travelled north to find the source of it.” 

Any ally is better than none but— 

“And what would convince them to make their stand here instead of defending their own borders?” she questions. Nothing would entice the North to spread their fighters so thin, not when they're struggling to defend themselves from both the north and south, and the High King would be a fool to do so. They would be fools to think that he would. The High King must already be planning his own return home, how to defend his own lands and people. 

Jon spreads his hands, helplessly. He’s a leader and a commander, but no statesman. He has the respect of the bannermen of the North for being their father's son, the respect of the Night Watch as their Lord Commander, the respect of the Free Folk for helping them pass through the Wall… but he is no politician, no scheming player of the game of thrones, tugging pieces into place where he needs them. 

It shall be up to her, then. 

She starts arranging guest accommodation but even the best of her assistants cannot decide what accommodation they might require. What does one _do_ with a man-horse? Sansa acknowledges they have done their best, and goes to ask. 

It’s a failing of her hospitality to take such a question to a guest, but she can see no other recourse — who else in Winterfell would even know how to answer such a question — so she makes her way to the Great Hall. It does not seem as though Jon or the High King is there any longer, but the rest of the High King’s party is. They’re grouped solidly together around one long table and the rest of Winterfell — barring the part of men who came back with Jon who are more interested in warmth and food — are giving them a wide and silent berth. 

“Lady of Winterfell,” says the man-horse, tipping one foreleg back as well as bowing at the waist. “May I assist you?” 

He had been standing close to the High King, perhaps ranking highly? She had been flustered enough by their appearance that she hadn’t managed to gather their specific standings, which is another thing she must find out. 

“Are you aware of where King Jon and High King Peter may be, ser?” 

“I believe they went to find your cartographer,” he says. “To compare our knowledge of the Unknown Tundra and Land of Always Winter and locate the home of our foe.” 

“A clever strategy,” Sansa praises, though she’s doubtful of the idea of going after the White Walkers instead of simply defending against them. “I beg your pardon, ser, I did not catch your name during the introductions.” 

“I am Oreius,” he says, “the Captain of the Kings' Guards and the Master of Arms at Cair Paravel.” 

He has the way of a soldier about him, gruff and straightforward, but clearly has experience with the court and the King. She can see the way the rest of them defer to him now, in the absence of their King. 

He introduces the rest of the party by name and title, and Sansa thinks that she keeps her poise admirably. The only one that shakes her is the young man with a bulls head on his shoulders, because he reminds her— 

He reminds her of what was done to Robb and she has a sense of vertigo, mingled horror and whimsical fantasy that maybe there could have been a way for him to survive, that he would just have arrived home like this and— 

But no. Impossible. 

She clasps her hands together in front of her to keep them from shaking. “Welcome, sers,” she says, before more quietly turning to Ser Oreius. “I must confess, ser, that we have never had guests from Narnia before, and I am unsure of what accommodations you may require. Is the food to your liking?” 

“For most, yes,” he says which means there are those that it does not suit. Given the range of animals — Talking Animals, she corrects herself, the way she always tries to refer to the Free Folk by their chosen moniker — it is unsurprising. “But we have many supplies with us, and more yet in care of the Giants.” 

“I cannot deny that is a relief,” Sansa says, for volume as much as tastes. Winterfell is stretched thin enough as is and though the party of Narnians is not large in number, she cannot yet fathom the idea of _Giants_. “I would welcome the rest of your party to Winterfell, though I am given to understand they were left behind?” 

Oreius nods sharply. “They will not fit within the walls of your castle,” he says, as if it is self-evident. “Even at the best of times a Giant does not do well in such closed quarters. Meaning no insult, my lady. Your castle seems fine and well fortified but it simply does not have the space for a group of Giants. I would suggest they camp outside the eastern walls, in the open fields there.” 

There might be farmers to pay off, but given how heavy the winter snow is already, there is unlikely to be any further crops for such camping to destroy. 

“As for the rest,” Oreius says, “the Dwarf, Satyr and Minotaur may be housed as you would a Human guest. The smaller Talking Animals may room together, and several will insist on staying with the High King as guard. As for the rest of us…” he looks thoughtful. “I did not have the chance to survey your facilities as we arrived, so I cannot offer many suggestions.” 

Though it seems unwise to allow a foreign soldier to scout their defences, Sansa cannot refuse to escort him on something of a tour. It seems too insulting to suggest the stables, for she would never accommodate guests there… even though he appears half horse and one of the others simply _is_ a white horned horse. 

He does not make bad company but he is unnerving all the same — the sound of hooves on stone has her half convinced she walks beside a horse, and yet his torso looms above her and makes conversing difficult. Sansa dislikes feeling looked down upon. 

He seems… impressed by the Godswood. But even more so with the hot springs that keep a portion of the forest warm, and the ground around them free from snow. 

“Those of us who prefer the outdoors, yet do not relish the cold may make camp here,” he says. “Narnians are a hardy breed, and those of us who survived the Age of Winter more than most, yet even we do not relish camping in the snow.” 

“The Age of Winter?” Sansa asks carefully. 

He looks briefly surprised. “For some time Narnia was held in the thrall of evil magic,” he explains. “Under the rule of the White Witch, we had only winter for one hundred years. It was only fifteen years ago that she was defeated and the High King was crowned.” 

Sansa shivers. They’re planning for a long winter, maybe a decade or more, yet a hundred years looms like an imposing figure. A whole generation might be born and die without ever seeing the spring. “I see,” she says, disquieted. "That is a long time indeed." 

"It seemed hopeless," he agrees solemnly. "Always winter but never Christmas, as the people took to saying. But it ended, eventually. As has every winter we have had since. This too, shall end." 

Sansa can only hope. “This location," she says, changing the subject back, "is not… made for camping in. It is of religious importance.” 

Oreius nods. “The trees are old,” he says approvingly. “The dryad who lives here must be very wise and powerful indeed. Do not fear, we will cause no harm and prevent no pilgrims from passing. It only seems,” he adds, somewhat more delicately than she had come to expect from him, “that your people are disturbed by us and having those of us who are more intimidating quartered distantly might lessen tensions.” 

“They have had many changes recently,” Sansa defends. “The Free Folk are also new to them but were quickly accustomed to. Though, if there are any issues, please bring them to my attention — you are our guests and I would not have my people disregard that for their own unease.” 

They walk back to the main hall and Oreius suggests sending a flyer to invite the Giants closer — and to bring their supplies. Sansa nearly offers one of their ravens for the task but, of course, the Narnian birds talk. Oreius simply asks a Petrel to deliver the message. 

“Of course!” it says and launches into the sky. 

Sansa is no great tactician, but even she can see the advantages such abilities might bring to them in the coming fight. But it reminds her to be wary — the information gathering abilities of the Narnians might truly be endless. Varys had always spoken of his ‘little birds’ that brought him news and the Narnians have them for truth. 

She advises the castle servants of the imminent arrivals, of the arrangements to make for the housing of their guests, then makes careful rounds to talk to each of the Narnians. She has learnt some, from Ser Oreius, and it only shows her how little she knows about them and their reasons. 

It’s unlikely they will give her all the information she needs to secure an alliance — what does Narnia need that the North can supply, what is worth their army coming to Winterfell’s defence — but they are also the only source of information that she has access to and she means to make the most of it. 

She does learn many things, but none of it clear. Of the White Witch, the previous queen, and the uprising that had instated the High King. That he is not the _only_ king of Narnia, and has three siblings that are also monarchs — how _big_ must Narnia be, to support three or four kingdoms? — and of someone called ‘Aslan’, who they assured her would keep the White Walkers out of Narnia. 

“Pity he couldn’t come with us, eh?” the Dwarf says, hand wrapped around a mug of ale. “I know the High King explained it. Something about rightful rulership and how Aslan only has so much power within Narnia itself… I admit, the doings of kings and gods are above me.” 

Sansa files _that_ tidbit away carefully. They do not speak of Aslan as the northerns do the Old Gods, or the southerners the Seven, but there _is_ reverence there — more than they show to the High King alone, though none of his party has anything bad to say of him. 

When it is time for the evening meal, Jon and High King Peter have yet to reappear. Sansa goes looking for them. 

As Ser Oreius had suggested earlier, they are with Maester Wolkan, attempting to put together a map. As Sansa sees when she enters, it appears as an upside down V, with Westeros being the eastern leg and another long continent as the other, with the Land of Always Winter joining the two. 

Ghost is crowded near Jon’s leg, and there is another, unfamiliar wolf next to the High King, and an eagle perched on the back of a chair and gazing upon the table. 

“I know of no sailor who has ever sailed east of Narnia,” the High King says. He looks very golden and handsome in the firelight, and she thinks he cannot be older than thirty, maybe even as young as five and twenty. There is a mouse perched on his shoulder, gripping his collar with one small hand for balance, and it wears a tiny vest and small sword belt. “They say there lies the Edge of the World that no man can pass and return from.” 

Jon frowns and runs a hand over his chin. “To the west of us lies the Sunset Sea,” he says. “The Ironborn say they once travelled it to land here, but no one has ever travelled westward since. It is hard to believe that another country lies so close and yet cannot be visited.” 

The High King shrugs the shoulder that has no sentry standing upon it. "I have known stranger things," he says, "than a sea too dangerous to cross." 

Sansa supposes he has a point. The dead are walking and the Others are attacking and now animals talk. What else is possible? A whole country hidden so near seems almost reasonable. 

“Forgive my interruption, your grace,” she says. “Won’t you join us for the evening meal? Accommodations have been arranged for your party and the rest of your men are on their way to join us.” 

The High King smiles at her and, even though Sansa knows better than to trust a smile, it's still shockingly bright. “Your hospitality is without compare, Lady of Winterfell,” he says, seeming devastatingly sincere. “I know we arrived with little warning.” 

Sansa demurrers politely. “There is no cause for apology,” she says. “Any ally against the White Walkers is a welcome guest, however unexpected.” 

He offers her his arm with all the gallantry of a King and escorts her to the Great Hall, where Sansa spends the meal making pleasant conversation. She finds him to be intelligent and well mannered, though she is cautious of finding more great differences between Westeros and Narnia. King Peter is clearly aware of his misstep at the gates but does not seem especially _concerned_ that they might so fundamentally misunderstand each other. 

“It must have been difficult,” she says, leadingly. She takes a casual sip of her wine, as though the comment means nothing to her. Nothing more than passing conversation. “To have left your kingdom alone in such trying times.” 

The High King smiles at her, reading nothing deeper into her words. “The timing was inconvenient,” he admits, almost ruefully. 

_Inconvenient_. If nothing else, she has discovered he has a remarkable talent for understatement. 

“How so?” she enquires politely, hoping to put more certain knowledge to the scatterings of gossip she has picked up. Incomplete knowledge can be worse than none at all, if she doesn't _understand_ it. 

“My brother and sister — that is, King Edmund and Queen Susan —" he begins, “were off visiting another land to the south. Their prince had visited us in Narnia for several months and impressed Susan quite thoroughly. He made an offer for her hand in marriage and so they went to Tashbaan to begin negotiations.” 

“Ah, a happy occasion,” Sansa offers, though nothing about the way he speaks indicates anything better than her own 'marriage negotiations'. 

His smile looks definitely forced this time. “Indeed. I did not hear from them before I left, but I’m sure they will manage well. It is far from the first foreign suitor that Susan has had, though certainly the one she has been most moved by.” 

“Oh? There are none among your own who caught her eye?” What _is_ the size of Narnia and it’s court? How many men or animals can they field in a fight? What is the size of a kingdom when you count every beast and bird? Every question Sansa considers only makes her more confused on the scope of it. A kingdom of _men_ she understands — Narnia much less so. 

“I would not _object_ if she chose such,” the High King answers after a deliberating pause, “but there are few enough Narnian’s that are… compatible. Even the few other Humans that live in Cair Paravel are mostly nobles from Archenland and not true Narnians.” 

Sansa turns her head and looks, once more, at the Narnian guests and takes note _again_ that there are no other humans amongst them. This time, the fact takes on a different meaning. There are no sons of Narnia to marry a queen. There are no daughters to marry a king. 

Her dinner settles heavily in her stomach, suddenly a lead weight weighing her down. 

She knows now, what exactly it is that the North has to offer in return for an army. It is what Sansa has always been required to offer. Twice married and now, again, it dangles before her. She can't even fathom being that small girl in Winterfell, excited to be betrothed to a prince. It seems so stupidly long ago — another lifetime, another person. 

"I see," she says, trying to keep all of it from her voice. 

The High King notices nothing, for which she is thankful. "For Narnia itself I have no worries," he says boldly, as if leaving his kingdom on the verge of war is no issue to him. If so, he is a fool. "For I left her in the hands of Queen Lucy the Valiant and there is no one more beloved to Narnia than Lucy. I have no doubt that by the time I return, she will have charmed the rivers to change course and the forests to move, simply so they might be closer to her." 

"She sounds delightful," Sansa says, well aware of the affectionate pride of an older brother. It's an easy flattery to appeal to. "How did she come by the appellation 'the Valiant'? Is she knighted?" 

"It was the title Aslan granted her as she was crowned," the High King explains. "My sister Susan became 'the Gentle' and my brother, 'the Just'. They were granted because of deeds already done, for certain, but also as a reminder for what virtues we should continue to embody and Aslan's hopes for our reign." 

And for himself 'the Magnificent'. A pretty title, but not a descriptive one. What counted as _magnificent_? Certainly, Sansa has known enough _honourable knights_ and their _magnificent deeds_ to doubt such a judgement. 

"But Lucy is the most dear brave-heart," he says earnestly, before she can formulate a way to ask. He spins a pretty tale of his sister bringing reinforcements to a battle and then afterwards visiting the sick and wounded and bestowing healing upon them. 

"That is no small feat," Sansa agrees. And a tale well-received by the rest of the table, for there's nothing lords tended to enjoy more than tales of heroic battle. Other than telling tales of their own heroic battles. 

Lord Royce takes up the challenge at once, telling of a campaign in the Vale that those in the North had likely not heard before, or at least, not as recently as their own frequent stories. Lord Manderly tells of a ship battle with raiders out of White Harbour (however much she doubts his personal involvement in it). And Jon quickly speaks over Tormund when it seems like he might throw into the bear story again. 

Such a tale might even be _less_ appropriate than normal. Sansa had hardly thought it possible. 

Then the turn of the conversation comes around to the High King again and he's asked after his second title: Ser Wolf's Bane. 

"I hope you don't take offense at House Stark's sigil," Lord Cerwyn jests. 

Sansa is less amused for she worries it might be true. 

"Indeed not!" the High King assures, and launches into a tale of Wolves working for the White Witch as enforcers — hunting those who opposed her. He tells them of how they had cornered his sister, and how he had rushed in to slay them. "That was the first battle in which I fought to overthrow the White Witch and it was our victory there that led us into the Battle of Beruna, where she was ultimately defeated. I was knighted by Aslan for it and titled 'Wolf's Bane'." 

"And yet now you have two Wolves in your retinue," Sansa says, taking care to keep her voice soft instead of pointed. It's merely an observation, not a criticism. 

"I do," the High King says. He takes a sip of wine, though he has not been drinking overly much. "That is the story of how the name came to be and I carried it for many years with, if not pride, then at least the unflinching knowledge that it had been right and necessary. But as we ruled, I found it was not so simple. For the Wolves are people of Narnia, as much as the Dwarfs and Satyrs and Leopards. They are our subjects and it is our duty to do right by them, not to simply rule over them with a name that inspires _fear_." 

Sansa tries to absorb that, but cannot quite believe it. She tries to imagine any King of the Seven Kingdoms thinking in such a way of the defeated army of their enemy — Robert Baratheon to the Targaryns, the Lannisters to the Starks… 

It seems more impossible than magic and Talking Animals. As impossible as a golden king. 

It _must_ be a facade. A pretty tale told to present himself in the best of lights. How could it be anything but? How could it be _true?_

"It has been slow going," the High King says, "but many of the people that fought with the White Witch have returned to us. The Wolves and the Minotaurs… this is only the first time that the Harpies have dealt with us since we signed the treaty of surrender but it is progress all the same." 

He smiles and she reflexively smiles back at him, lifting her goblet in a salute. "It sounds remarkable," she says, a touch wistfully. 

As if such a thing could ever be true... 

The next day, Sansa spends most of her time soothing her own people and bannermen. They’re frightened and alarmed at the Narnians and their strangeness, a feeling which she shares. But they also understand Jon’s hope — that the possibility of allies is worth the strangeness. Winterfell has only a handful of Valyrian Steel weapons and not much dragonglass, simply being _able_ to harm the Wights makes the Narnians valuable as gold. 

Sans also begins some simple negotiations with King Peter, when Jon can spare his attention. It is not just the army that is of interest to her — but a possible supply route as well. After the prolonged warring and the burning of Winterfell, and everything that has happened since she left as a child, their granaries are near empty already. The years of careful management that her father had put into the North, to prepare them for the coming winter, have been destroyed — even if they survive the White Walkers they might all starve in the cold. 

Transport through the land beyond the Wall does not seem ideal, and likely will be even less so when the White Walkers draw nearer and nearer but it is a _possibility_ in a way that trade with the south has ceased to be _._ And it allows Sansa to draw more and more information out of the Narnians about their land and people. How true all of it is, she could not say, but she promises nothing that the North cannot spare. 

Timber they have in excess, at least; there are more trees in the North than will ever need be burnt for warmth though the harvesting of it might prove troublesome if the snows last. Silver; so long as the Old Mint at White Harbour has not been lost. Any kind of fripperies of trade, wine and spices and fashion — they might need all the wool and warm furs they can keep, but Sansa will sew a hundred summer cloaks with her own hands, if she must. 

In turn, the King Peter talks — fondly and gladly — of the orchards that surround his castle and the fruit preserves they make from them. Of oceans and rivers teeming with fish. Of fields of golden wheat milled to flour. It sounds like the stories her mother used to tell her, of golden southern lands. Lands of plenty and ease and music and joy. 

Sansa has seen what lies behind _those_ stories. 

But King Peter's terms for trade are fair, even though he must be able to see the desperate need Winterfell is in. Maybe he does not mean to keep them, or maybe Winterfell does not seem to have any more worth to him, but she cannot find fault with his negotiations. 

"I must send Redbeak and Whitewing back to Cair Paravel with the information on the White Walkers that we have gathered so far," he tells her. "So they will also be able to convey our agreement of trade with good haste." 

Sansa smiles, sweet and polite. "I am pleased to hear it, your grace," she says. "You have made me most eager to taste the fruits of the Cair Paravel orchard." 

The smile he bestows on her for that is far less diplomatic — more blinding, boyish and good natured. "I have talked myself up," he observes with a laugh. "Now I must hope they transport well or I shall have disappointed you. I would tell Lucy that she must pick them with care, lest I look like a fool, but to give a little sister such a tempting target would make me twice the fool." 

He talks easily of his siblings — his fellow rulers — but sometimes it only makes Sansa keenly aware of her own missing siblings and the gaps they've left behind in Winterfell. 

Could she even imagine what would happen if she had dared ask Arya Underfoot to pick her fruit? 

"I'm sure they will be delightful," is all she says. 

Afterwards, she walks slowly through Winterfell, taking in the sight of it. Snowflakes falls in gentle bursts now, and she has men set to keeping the streets and battlements clear with industrious shovelling. People hurry through the streets, which grow dark earlier and earlier. Winter hours, or the Long Night come early? 

Some evenings, she takes to walking the battlements, eyes following the empty horizons. Sometimes Jon joins her, or sometimes Brienne, but mostly she enjoys the time alone with her thoughts, the cool wind on her face. 

One evening, she finds the Harpy woman perched on one of the guard towers, looking like a particularly frightening gargoyle. The guard stationed there has moved three steps down the battlement, but Sansa merely gives him a nod as she passes. She cannot force them to be comfortable with the newcomers, and as she approaches the Harpy gives her a smile full of needle sharp teeth. 

No wonder he moved. 

"Greetings," she says, refusing to be cowed. She will not give ground in her own castle. 

"Nightflyer greets the Lady," the Harpy says, almost sullenly, wings hunching in just a touch closer. It reminds her of a bird huddling for warmth. 

_This is the first time the Harpies have dealt with us since we signed the treaty of surrender_ , King Peter had said. None of his own party have had a bad word to say of him — and why should they? They were specifically chosen to accompany him on a long, dangerous journey. Their loyalty must be absolute — but Sansa has dearly wished to hear the Harpy speak. 

"Are you cold, Nightflyer?" she asks. "I shall be happy to accompany you back to the hot springs." 

The Harpy gives her another of those teeth-bared grimaces. "Nightflyer will not rest with the small talkers." She hunches again. "Nightflyer was born in winter. She is not cold." 

Sansa nods seriously, as if accepting that despite the obvious evidence to the contrary. "I see. I have heard a little of your Age of Winter," she says. "It must be difficult to travel with the Narnians, after fighting against them." 

"Skynest does not wish for Winter again," Nightflyer admits, as if grudgingly. "Queen Jadis promised food and plenty, but there was nothing to hunt." It might be the first time anyone has said the _name_ of the previous Queen but even Sansa is hard pressed to find any respect in it. "If the White Walkers make Winter again, Skynest will starve." 

"Even though it means working with the High King?" Sansa presses. 

"Even," Nightflyer mutters unhappily. And then, as if to escape the conversation, launches herself off the side of the tower, a dark, ungainly shape taking flight like she's fighting the sky. 

Sansa stays in place and watches the horizon for a while longer, unable to tell if she is disappointed with the conversation or not. It… confirms exactly what she has already been told, more or less. The Narnians are doing what Westeros hasn't been able to, and putting previous disagreements aside to fight against the White Walkers. If there are any greater secrets, they are deeper than she has the ability to look. 

She turns to go — nodding to the guard who resumes his post at last — and paces the rest of the battlements. As she passes over the practice grounds, her eyes fall on the figures still hard at work. Training. 

It's no surprise to see Brienne there, forever honing her blade against the targets and completing endless hours of practice, but it is a surprise to see that this time she has an opponent. Him too, Sansa can recognise at a glance — golden and tall, carrying a shield with a red lion rampant. 

Ser Orieus is standing nearby, so clearly it is an approved and acknowledged practice bout, but Sansa still grips the wooden railing tightly as she watches. She is no swordsman, but even she can admire the certainty of their forms, the fluidity and skill of their movements. 

King Peter would make a fearsome enemy, no doubt. There are movements he makes that Brienne has no idea how to counter, things undoubtedly learnt from having to fight such a strange range of opponents. 

But it is Brienne that ultimately triumphs — and Sansa feels a wicked sense of glee at it — weathering what attacks she cannot deflect and hammering heavy blow after relentless heavy blow onto him, until she manages to knock him back, flat into the dirt. 

There's a beat of silence. It stretches. 

And then he laughs, the sound carrying clear up to where Sansa is standing. She cannot hear what he says after that — as he bounces back to his feet in a manner so easy he could not possibly have been harmed by the experience — but it makes Brienne relax and reply. Then Ser Orieus steps forward to take a match and though that also promises to be fascinating to watch, Sansa slips away. 

She has much to think on. 

All too soon Jon and King Peter set off again, heading Beyond The Wall to scout their foes. They know very little of the number of their foes, or how fast they're moving or really… anything at all about them. 

Sansa goes to the gates to see them off, wishing them well. "Stay safe," she requests. "King Jon. King Peter." 

Jon nods, solemn and grey-eyed and promises nothing. "Take care, Sansa," is all he says in turn. 

"We shall return to you as soon as we have answers," King Peter declares. "Worry not for our absence." 

It's too cold to stay out and watch them leave, but Sansa waits until the gates swing shut behind them before she turns away. 


	3. Peter II

King Jon leads them north again, away from the castle of Winterfell, seeming to grow graver and more solemn with every league they travel. They pass through the castle of Last Hearth and approach the marvel of engineering that is the Wall — tall enough to even block the tallest of the Giants. 

As he had the first time, Peter studies it with considerable awe. "There is nothing like this in all of Narnia." 

"There's nothing else like it in all of Westeros," King Jon says. It doesn't seem to be his way to volunteer information, but he seems almost proud of it. "It was built by Bran the Builder, or so the legends say. He was the first Stark, the first King of the North." 

"A worthy name to be remembered by," Peter says. 

"Aye," King Jon says, and seems to lose heart. "It was supposed to be kept manned by the Night Watch." His voice evens out, as if reciting an oath. " _I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men._ Aye, maybe if we had remembered why, the Wall would be enough to protect us now. We wouldn't have wasted our chance fighting the Free Folk." 

As it stands, even Peter can tell there are not enough men here to defend such an expanse. But the men that are there seem to hold King Jon in high regard and let them pass through easily. 

"You fought them?" Peter asks, surprised. "I had gathered you invited them into Winterfell." 

King Jon is silent for a moment. "I did," he says, "but not soon enough. And… it was not a popular move." He rubs the heel of his hand into the center of his chest. "King Stannis had his army here at the time," he says, "enough men that we could have held the Wall for months. That we could have retaken Winterfell with them. But he had this… this Red Priestess, who swore he was the Prince That Was Promised, that he would wield Lightbringer, that he would defeat the great evil in the north. She could see things in fire… could _do_ things with fire that... " He stops and blows out a breath that hangs like dragon fire in the cold air. 

"Ah, a prophecy," Peter says, understandingly. "We had one of those. _When Adam's Flesh and Adam's bone sits in Cair Paravel in throne, the evil time will be over and done._ " He bears the stares thrown his way for a second then adds, "no one ever said the prophets of Narnia were good poets. That's not even the worst bit of it." 

King Jon chuckles, though he still sounds flatly unamused. "Well, if it was a prophecy, it was a poor one," he says. "Stannis is dead and she's gone, so there'll be no help from that quarter." 

"A pity," Peter says, because when it came down to it, their prophecy had been fairly straightforward. Everyone had known it, the instant they had arrived in Narnia. "We shall have to continue as we are, then." 

King Jon chaffs his hands together for warmth. "A pity," he echoes. "A flaming sword sounds really useful right about now." 

From there they head straight north, battling the cold and snow and ice. The mountains that Peter had crossed coming from Narnia — the Frostfangs — loom tall on their west and to the east is a thick, dark forest. 

"The Haunted Forest," King Jon says. "Hardhome lies that way, and the Shivering Sea." 

It is not easy travelling, and seems worse for those of Westeros. Peter has oft been glad of Aslan's blessings, and never more so than when he draws his cloak tight around himself to fight the wind. He cannot remember such cold, even from those days fleeing the White Witch in nothing but their English house clothes. Narnia, even in the Age of Winter, seems paradise compared to this. 

They fight some; straggling wights in ones or twos, a White Walker commanding a larger and more dangerous group, but few enough that these can only be scouts, not the main army. Dangerous, yes, but no more than they dealt with on their way east in the first place. 

When they reach a fort that King Jon names the Fist of the First Men, Peter suggests sending Blackfeather back to Winterfell with word of their progress so far. The Artic Tern enjoys nothing more than a long flight and Lady Sansa might worry less if she had word of their progress. 

"There is much to worry over," is all Jon says. "But yes. Please assure her we are well." 

They continue north — passing the Giant's Stairs and the Milkwater — and approach the Thenn valley at the north of the Frostfangs. It is Dartfeather, the gryphon who has taken charge of the scouting, who spots it first. 

"You'll want to see this, sire," he says gravely. 

" _Death_ ," chirps the Robin huddling close by his side in a miserable ball of puffed out feathers. "We're all going to _die._ " 

"We are not going to die," Peter says with all the patience of someone who has repeated this statement quite a few times. "All will be well. Dartfeather, will you take us high?" 

King Jon doesn't seem thrilled to ride upon a gryphon — and nor do his men seem thrilled to be separated from him — but Dartfeather takes them high and forward until they can see what had worried him so. 

At first, Peter thinks it is simply fog covering the ground. A moving, roiling fog stretching down the Frostfangs and covering half the valley in blue and white. 

King Jon catches on much faster. "Wights," he breathes. "And White Walkers. There must be tens of thousands. A hundred thousand. And they'll only gather more as they move south, raising any corpse in their path." 

Dartfeather drifts back and back, returning them to the rest of the group and settling down heavily, clearly exhausted from carrying them both. 

"This is the information we came here to find," Peter says encouragingly as they explain to the rest of the group. "We know the location and number of the enemy. They are not moving fast, but they are moving. We will only have a short time to gather our forces." 

Of course it does not go smoothly. Some of the Narnians panic. Some of the Giants do not believe his report and will not, not without seeing it with their own eyes. Given how much Peter suspects they will need the Giants on their side in the coming battle, he agrees they should make camp and scout some more in the coming days. There will be vantage points in the Frostfangs where the Giants may be able to spy from a distance, without being seen in return. And King Jon wishes to measure how quickly the wights are moving south, to estimate how long it will take them to reach the Wall. 

Peter sends a flier south to Winterfell and a second to Narnia for Lucy. And then, almost as if knowing they require _good_ news… Blackfeather returns from Winterfell. 

"Lady Arya and Lord Bran have returned," he announces. "Lady Sansa said I must tell you with haste! Lord Bran has information on the Night King and his plans, so you must return as soon as you are able." 

King Jon looks blank and shocked. "Arya? Bran?" he repeats, almost in disbelief. "They're… alive?" 

"Lady Arya and Lord Bran?" Peter enquires carefully. 

"My brother and sister," King Jon says, dazed. He shakes his head, like he can't believe it. He sits down hard. "They were lost to us. _They're back._ " 

Peter claps a hand on his shoulder. "I'm glad to hear it," he says sincerely. "We will make our way back soon and you will be reunited with them. There is truly nothing more dear than to see one’s siblings again after a long absence." 

Once the Giants have been convinced and the birds have scouted as far as they can fly and they have taken the best judge of the Night King's army as they can… they make haste south. The travelling feels pressing now, combined with the notion of the force they will be facing. As they approach the Wall, Nightflyer and the Giants make plans to split the group and head for home. 

"Roostmother must be informed," Nightflyer says, huddling miserably in the cold. "Must know the face of the enemy." But, almost reassuringly, she adds, "the Harpies will hunt the dead men." 

"We look forward to the aid of Skynest," Peter says, not entirely certain such a thing would come to pass but hopeful all the same. "The fierceness of the Harpies is well acknowledged." 

She seems pleased with that. 

"I'll tell the Buffins," Rumblebuffin assures him. "We'll come. And if we're coming I bet the rest of them won't want to be left out! Not when they hear how much fighting there's going to be!" 

The Giants _do_ like to fight, it's true. And more than that, they're the ones who were displaced by the snow and cold. Given an enemy that could be defeated, instead of simple weather, they would likely be quite eager to go about hitting things with clubs. 

King Jon watches them go with an odd look, jaw clenched and the skin around his eyes tight — almost pained. Peter waits for him to talk, but as is his general choice, he keeps his own council and they make their way back to Winterfell. 

Once they make the castle, King Jon breaks from the group, shedding decorum as he scoops a young girl into his arms. He's laughing, or crying, spinning her around, and Lady Sansa stands next to a young boy in a wheeled chair. 

_Two sons of Adam, two daughters of Eve_ , Peter thinks, amused at the similarity, even if this is not Narnia and there is no prophecy for them. Still. It seems like a good omen. 

"Forgive me for neglecting you, your grace," Lady Sansa says, curtseying to him. She's as elegant as ever, but there's a sparkle to her eyes that was absent before. A happiness. 

He would have never denied that she was lovely, but now— 

Happiness becomes her, greatly. 

Peter cannot help but smile at her. "It is no concern, Lady Sansa," he says, bowing back to her. "I would do nothing to interrupt such a happy reunion. Please, stay with your family. Your stewards can settle us well enough." 

He can see the war of manners with desire and makes it easier for her by taking his leave and moving towards her steward, who is holding the bread and salt for their welcoming ritual. Around them, the castle is more lively than it has been previously, as though the people of Winterfell are also cheered by the return of their lords and ladies, or as if King Jon's and Lady Sansa's good moods are reflected through their people, and his own spirit is lifted simply by the seeing of it. 

It's a good mood that holds, even through the next day when they gather for a War Council. The room is crowded and hushed as King Jon lays out what they saw of their enemy. 

"And the Wall?" a one-handed knight, standing next to Ser Brienne, asks. "How long will that hold them?" 

King Jon looks grim. "Not long enough," he says. "Not unless we can muster thousands more men to staff it." 

"Then the question," the one-handed knight goes on, "is which part will fall first? Where will they go once they pass it?" 

"Here," Lord Bran says, voice flat and distant. "He will come here. He will come for the Three-Eyed-Raven." 

There's a second of confused silence. 

"Forgive me," Peter says, feeling rather like his first weeks in Narnia when he understood _nothing_. "I don't believe I've been introduced to such a Raven?" 

Lady Sansa spares him a quick flash of a smile, as if relieved someone has taken the plunge and asked. "As far as I understand," she says, "it's a title. One that was passed down to Bran. The previous Three-Eyed-Raven lived in the Haunted Forest beyond the Wall and taught him how to… how to see things that happened far in the past, or things that are happening now in distant places." 

"Greensight," Tormund says in a tone of recognition. "Aye, tis a powerful ability. But enough for the Night King to target?" 

"He’s tried before," Bran says. "Many times, with many Three-Eyed-Ravens. He wants an endless night. He wants to erase this world, and I am its memory." 

Peter doesn't entirely understand but it seems that no one around the War Table really does. Still. It's enough. "So, wherever you are, he will target," he says. "That gives us the ability to choose the field of battle." 

"It'll have to be Winterfell," King Jon says, practically. "The Wall would be better but… we would never manage to defend the entire distance. We simply don't have enough men. We have to hunker down into a siege until the Night King shows himself. Our only chance will be to remove him and hope that the Wights fall." 

"Then we must send ravens to the other keeps," Lady Sansa declares. "They must fall back to Winterfell as soon as possible. And bring as many supplies with them as they can manage." 

"I will see the message sent, my lady," Maester Wolken says. 

There are other stratagems bandied about — ways to bolster the defences around Winterfell, ways to reduce the number of wights that make it through the wall, ways to harry them and spare Winterfell the _entirety_ of the attack, ways to protect those between Winterfell and the Wall if they do not evacuate to Winterfell in time, the potential for falling back further and holding the Neck at the Twins should Winterfell fall. 

"With the death of the Freys," Lady Sansa says, sharing a look with her sister, "our uncle Edmure Tully holds the Twins and the Riverlands." 

"Can they send any men?" King Jon asks. 

Lady Sansa hesitates. "I don't think so," she admits. "Or rather… we need the Riverlands and the Vale to hold the south. I have had word—" she nods to the knight by Ser Brienne "—that there is more fighting in the Reach and Crownlands. Daenerys Targaryen has landed on Dragonstone with dragons and Cersei Lannister has hired the Golden Company from Essos, and allied with Euron Greyjoy. If we let down our guard we will be beset on both sides." 

" _Dragons_ ," Lord Royce mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't suppose there's any chance of allying with those." 

The one handed knight gives him a sardonic smile. "Have you ever seen a man burn to death inside his armour?" he asks. "Or rather, smelled it? Good luck requesting an audience without personally finding out." 

"Perhaps an opportunity left for when things settle in the south," Lady Sansa suggests, setting the suggestion and brewing argument aside. "I would rather not interrupt our enemies if they are so obliging as to fight each other." 

That winds the meeting down fairly effectively. People straggle out of the room, leaving the Starks behind, hovering over the map table. 

Peter says, "though your hospitality has been generous, it seems time for me to return to Narnia and raise what forces I can." 

He has no exact numbers — Narnia does not precisely keep a standing army — but such numbers would be incomparable regardless. How should one count the number of Mice to the number of Bears? How should that compare to a Gryphon? 

In a way, it is something to be thankful for. The number of Wights is so massive that any number would seem pitiful in comparison. But as Oreius had once said to him, _numbers alone don't win a battle_. 

(Even Peter had known, back then, though, that they sure did _help._ ) 

Lady Sansa and King Jon exchange a speaking look with each other, before Lady Sansa says, "I wish to speak with you, before you depart. Would you walk with me, your grace?" 

"Certainly, my lady," Peter offers her his arm and they meander through the quiet cold of the castle, towards the Godswood. The great Weirwood tree looms silent over the snow. 

"This was always my favourite place," Lady Sansa says, with a soft smile. She takes a seat on a low stump, arranging her skirts neatly around her legs. "It's so peaceful here." 

"It's lovely," Peter says sincerely. "It most clearly puts me in mind of Narnia. I feel like I could step between the trees and find Cair Paravel waiting for me." 

"It sounds lovely when you speak of it," Lady Sansa says. She clasps her hands together on her lap, then unfolds them immediately and rests them on her knee. "I would like to see it, one day." 

Peter smiles, honestly flattered and perfectly happy to grant such a request. "You would be most welcome," he says. "Truly. Once this is over, I would be honoured for you to visit Narnia. We would hold a grand welcome — feasts and festivals and games and dancing. I would show you the glittering eastern sea, the gardens of Cair Paravel, the dryads of the Cherry Woods and the Dancing Lawn." 

She smiles, but looks down, as if unconvinced by his words. "I fear there will be no _after_." 

There is… little Peter can say to that. He could try cheer her, but Lady Sansa knows as many of the facts as he does — she would know how much his statements are based on faith and hope rather than certainty. 

They are beyond the reach of Aslan here. Even Peter cannot say for certain that they will be victorious. Still… 

"Do not lose heart, Lady Sansa," he says, moving carefully to sit next to her to offer what support and comfort he might. "We have not yet begun to fight back. We cannot cry defeat before the battle is even joined." 

"I will stand strong until the last," she says, by way of agreement. "It is only that… with such pressing time… to leave things until _after_ seems too much. I hope you will forgive me for being forward but… I do not wish you to leave." 

Peter, having half begun an offer for her to accompany him to Narnia _now_ if she so wished, is struck silent. 

"I feel that if you were to leave," she says, "you would not return. Some misfortune would strike along the way, to you or to us. Maybe the White Walkers would move more quickly than we anticipate… maybe there would be another player revealed… I cannot say. I only know that… if you are to leave, you would not return." 

"I can only say that my own intentions are to return with haste," Peter says, earnestly. "I cannot say there is no danger in it but… I do not foresee the problems that you do." 

She seems sincerely distressed by the idea, however, and Peter cannot say that her worries are entirely without merit. It's possible that something dangerous could occur before he managed to return to Winterfell. And that would surely leave Lady Sansa in a difficult position. 

"It is bold of me," she says, "but haste makes me speak improperly. I… I think you are the greatest example of a King that I have seen. I… I would be…" she swallows and cannot seem to go on, staring off into the snow, before she tries again. "It would be beneficial for the North and Narnia to have a formalised alliance. A strong one, tied together so firmly that it cannot be denied by any of our people." 

"Lady Sansa," he says, at a loss. It's not that he cannot guess what she is saying. Or even that he disagrees. 

It is not that he has not _thought_ about making some kind of offer. But he had thought, if there was anything to be done, then it would be _after_. When there was time to think and consider without constraints pressing in on them, without making it just another thing to be concerned over. 

But on that too, he can see her point. Now might be the only time they have. 

"Lady Sansa," he repeats. "I agree that a union between our kingdoms would be a benefit to us both, in times of battle and in times of peace. If you would be amendable…" 

"I would be," she replies, voice steady. 

Peter draws in a steadying breath. This is not a conversation he thought he would be having today. He moves to kneel in front of her irrespective of the snow covering the ground and gently takes her hand between his own. "You have caught me unprepared," he says honestly. "I have no ring with which to ask, nor speech or spectacle. I present myself poorly and can only hope that your graciousness and favour allows it." 

Her fingers gently curl against his. "I don't think you have presented yourself poorly at all," she says, voice nearly a whisper. 

It gives him courage that he desperately needs. "You are beyond lovely," he says, which is an easy place to start but seems to fall so far short of being enough. "There is nothing I have admired more than seeing how much care and attention you give your people. How hard you are fighting to ensure they are prepared for this coming battle." 

"You needn't speak flattery, your grace," Lady Sansa says, cheeks going the faintest bit pink. "You do not need to convince me." 

"Luckily," Peter says, ducking his head and grinning. "I think I would be doing badly if I did. It occurs to me that I know nothing of your wedding customs — it has somehow not come up in our earlier conversations." 

Lady Sansa smiles back at him, squeezing his hands and letting them go. "We will have plenty of time to discuss it," she offers. "I mean to say… Surely you do not _have_ to leave. Could you not send word via raven, that is via one of your flying subjects, and have your army join you here?" 

Peter stands, running his hand over his jaw and concedes that it would be _possible._ Lucy would have no trouble raising the army, but if Ed and Su hadn't returned from Calormene there would be no one to stop her accompanying the army herself, which would leave Narnia empty. It was a thought he misliked, but Aslan _would_ be there… 

And he can only imagine the grief he would get if he went and got married without any of his siblings being _present_ for it. 

"Yes," he says, "yes, alright. I will send word posthaste." 

Lady Sansa sighs and her shoulders lower as if a tremendous amount of tension has dropped off of them. She rises, brushing off her skirts and comes to stand at his side. "There is only one thing," she says, "I do not mean to misrepresent— That is. I am Lady of Winterfell, but Winterfell is a seat that belongs to the Stark family. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._ So it will pass to Bran or Arya or Jon, not through marriage." 

"Of course," Peter agrees, easily. "I will not— I am not Peter the Conqueror. I will not hold any lands but those of Narnia. What titles you hold in Westeros are yours, and yours alone." 

She blinks at him, lips slightly parted, as if befuddled by his response but Peter is only glad that Aslan had prepared him for at least this much. Maybe it hadn't been quite what Aslan had meant — or maybe it _had been_ — but his answer holds true all the same. 

"And the journey between Winterfell and Cair Paravel is not so bad," Peter says optimistically. It was slightly worse than that between Cair Paravel and Tashbaan — at least that was largely by ship though perhaps, if they hugged the coastline, they might manage to cross the Eastern Sea by ship — and Susan had meant to travel between those. "If you should continue to hold it and we should need to split our time between one castle and the other." 

"I shall have to take your word on it," Lady Sansa says, with a smile that wobbles only a little. "As I have never been north of the Wall." 

"Then it shall be an adventure!" Peter cries gladly. "There is nothing better than to explore a new place with friends and family! But perhaps we should not linger overlong out here. It is _terribly_ cold. Have you spoken with King Jon? Or should I ask… permission?" 

"I have spoken with him," Lady Sansa says, looping her hand into the crook of his arm and beginning their walk back to the castle. "He is not much one for politics, but I think he shall be pleased." 


	4. Sansa II

Sansa is in her solar, looking over her correspondence, when Arya slips in through the door. By the fire, Grim lifts her head but upon identifying the intruder, only says, "Lady Arya," and returns to her previous position. 

Having the Narnian wolves around isn't _like_ having Lady back — or even like having Ghost around — but there's a kind of bittersweet familiarity to it all the same. And Sansa _does_ want to get to know the Narnian subjects, if she is to be their Queen too. 

"I'm no lady," Arya says, scowling, as she has every time she is addressed as such. It has yet to change a single thing with how the Talking Animals address her. 

_It's not really about respect or class or anything like that_ , King Peter had said when he'd noticed the argument. _I think they just_ like _saying titles. Lion knows we've never managed to get them to stop._

Another odd thing that Sansa has filed away and kept note of. 

"Arya." She smiles. "Would you like some tea? It's still hot." 

Arya leaves off her glaring competition with the Wolf. "Nah," she says. "I just came to tell you the sentries have seen the Narnian army approaching. Or at least, they can see _Giants_." 

Sansa rises to her feet, heart leaping. The Giants hadn't even returned to Winterfell after ranging north, and Jon had been half-certain that they were gone for good. Sansa hadn't been able to argue the point for it had seemed by far the smartest choice. And yet King Peter had long insisted that they would come. 

It seems he was right. 

"Then we should head to the battlements and see," she declares, picking up her gloves and throwing on a cloak. 

The battlements are particularly crowded — it seems Sansa wasn't the only one informed of their approaching guests. Truthfully, there isn't that much to see and it will be a while yet before any smaller procession becomes visible on the roads, but it's enough to bring an air of festivity to the castle. 

By the time the Narnian party does arrive at the gates, Sansa has organised a welcoming party — one far more fitting than the hasty gathering that had welcomed King Peter. The daylight does not last for very long these days, and is nearly set despite the early hour, but there are enough torches around the courtyard to provide sufficient lighting. 

Given how deep the snow is now, Sansa isn't surprised to see no wheelhouses in the party. The two Humans leading the party both ride ahorse — a lord and lady with dark hair and fair skin, dressed in vibrant colours. The lord wears a crown of silver and the lady has a circle of gold flowers, metal woven so delicately that Sansa at first takes them to be real. 

"Ed!" Peter calls, voice rising with delight. "Su! By jove, I did not expect you." 

Ed — _King Edmund_ , his brother — slides off his horse and crosses the distance between them in easy strides, meeting Peter for an enthusiastic hug. 

Sansa clasps her hands together in front of her, and adjusts. King Peter had been so sure that it would be Queen Lucy coming with the army. She had coaxed numerous tales out of him, prepared to make the best impression she could. And all for naught — she should have asked over his other siblings. 

"There were problems in Tashbaan," King Edmund says, voice so quiet that if Sansa weren't as close as she is, she would hear nothing. "Careful with Su. She's been upset." 

Sansa is familiar enough with King Peter now to know that the news troubles him, even as he moves forward to help his sister down off her horse. Queen Susan moves gracefully, with an elegance that Sansa envies but she does not return her brothers embrace near as enthusiastically as King Edmund had. 

"You left this behind," Queen Susan says, retrieving something from the saddlebags of her horse. 

King Peter unfolds the wrapped cloth to reveal a gleaming golden crown, and laughs. "I didn't think it would be required," he says, placing it atop his head. It suits him well, gold inset with small rubies and engraved with sunbursts, the points the shape of oak leaves. "I did not anticipate finding another kingdom hidden behind the snow." 

They glide gracefully back across the courtyard, towards where Sansa and Jon are waiting. 

"Lucy didn't come with you?" Peter asks. "I was certain that once I requested an army no force would be able to keep her away." 

"It was a near thing," King Edmund says, with a quick smile that doesn't quite make his eyes. "She very nearly stowed away in the baggage train. But there was some fighting in Archenland with King Lune, so we were able to convince her she had already had her turn." 

"Goodness," Peter says. "It sounds like I have missed much. You will have to catch me up. But for now, please, let me introduce you to Lady Sansa of Winterfell and King Jon of the North." 

King Edmund and Queen Susan are gracious and polite and have clearly been informed of the guest rite custom, so it goes far more smoothly than when they had welcomed King Peter. But both of them watch her with such _evaluating_ stares that Sansa knows they're wondering what she has done to get their brother to agree to any of this — how much of a threat she might prove to be. 

  
She cannot blame them, exactly, for she would be the same if Jon had sworn so foolishly to a lady _just because_ but it makes her wary in a way she hadn't even realised she had _stopped_ being. 

Settling such a large number of guests takes time and Sansa spends the day in a flurry of activity. Thankfully, the Narnians have brought sufficient supplies with them — as well as the first of their trade; the amounts that the Giants can carry across even treacherous terrain astounds her — but these must also be catalogued and stored. 

"Bran says he can't see them," Arya mutters, from behind her, circling around with that terrible silent grace she has now. "Their pasts, I mean. Apparently his magic raven eyes don't go as far as Narnia." 

"Of course they don't," Sansa says, dryly. She doesn't understand Bran and his… _visions_ at the best of times, but Arya seems to have taken it in stride. Maybe because Arya's own learnings from the House of Black and White seem so equally strange and unbelievable. "Things could hardly be so simple. What _can_ he see?" 

"The Night King is nearly at Eastwatch," Arya says. "And he knows Bran is here." 

It's not unexpected, but it still makes Sansa feel like a cold hand has reached inside her chest and gripped her heart. "So close," she says. The Narnian army has arrived just in time. 

"Not long now," Arya agrees, face solemn. 

Sansa retreats to her solar alone warming a cup of spiced wine for herself, and sitting at her desk to go over the keep, adjusting for the new supplies and weaponry that the Narnians have brought with them. 

She's surprised when Peter joins her, several hours later. 

"I hope I'm not interrupting, Lady Sansa," he says, looking weary. His presence isn't unusual, they have developed a habit of spending much time together throughout the day when other duties have not claimed them. The quiet hours in her solar have been some of the most welcome. 

"Of course not," she says, moving to pour a drink for him. "I simply thought you would be with your siblings." 

He runs a hand over his face, pressing fingers against his eyes as if banishing a headache. "They've had a long journey," he excuses, seating himself in one of the chairs near the fire. "And, well—" 

He's silent for so long that Sansa asks, "is all well?" 

She is selfish and she has chosen to defend Winterfell over a nation she has never been to — but she doesn't wish it any harm. Surely, with the Night King focused on Bran and Winterfell, there would be no army also marching west. She hopes. 

Peter dredges up a smile for her. "I told you Susan had gone south to marry a prince of Tashbaan," he says. "It turns out he was not as honourable as we had assumed." 

Sansa sets her cup down on the table, and folds herself neatly into a chair opposite him. "Oh no," she says, faintly. 

"Indeed," Peter says. "It was a blasted thing. He tried to keep them there, in Tashbaan, when she wouldn't agree to the marriage. But they managed to sneak out and sail away. Of course… then he took an army through the desert and tried to attack from the south." He shakes his head and drinks. "I didn't quite get the rest of it — something about King Lune's son sneaking away to warn them — but apparently Lucy and King Lune managed to raise a response in time to fight them off." 

"Are you to have war, then?" Sansa asks and she can nearly _taste_ defeat. All her efforts to keep him here, and then this. 

"No," Peter says, surprising her. "They were fought off easily enough, and the Tisroc — that's the King, basically — he won't support his son's actions. Since they failed, anyway. He'd have supported them if they'd _worked._ " He sounds somewhat wry, but that's really only sensible. "They won't try again, not for a good long while." 

He sounds comfortable with the fact and she very nearly thinks him callous — but more likely it's _confidence_. He has brought a fighting force across the ice and snow to defend Winterfell and is still confident that no attack will take his kingdom. Given what Sansa has learnt about Narnia, she supposes he might have reason for confidence — if every tree can be a soldier, surely there must always be a last line of defence? 

"That is fortunate," she says, and tries not to feel bitter that everything in Narnia seems to go so much smoother. Most likely, she is only hearing part of it. That the real difficulty is simply erased in the telling of it. But there was a lady — a queen — who nearly married a horrible prince, who was trapped but escaped, who lost nothing in doing it... 

Sansa tries not to be too bitter towards a woman who escaped her fate. It's a _good_ thing. She wouldn't wish that suffering on anyone. But oh, to have _escaped..._

"Su is terribly upset, though," he says. "I hate that. She thinks she ought have seen it before they went. I don't see how she could have — none of the rest of us did." 

"Did you tell her that?" Sansa asks, curious at her own poise. 

"I did," Peter says, stoutly. "So did Ed and he's had his own experience with trusting— But it _wasn't_ her fault. And she managed to escape on her own, but if she hadn't we would have come for her. Even if we had to attack Tashbaan on our own." 

His jaw is set and she thinks he means it. She wonders if Robb did too, when he started, before things got so much more complicated. She wonders if Robb didn't mean it, and what would have happened if he had. 

(She doesn't wonder if Peter would have come for her, would have attacked the Red Keep, because he didn't know her then. There's no point in it. He's fighting an army for her _now._ ) 

"Much the same thing happened to me, once." She hasn't really spoken of it with him — most of their worries are focused on the here and now, on Winterfell and the North and her time in the south can feel like it happened to another person. Still, she does now, quiet words that skim over the horror of it, packaging it neatly into a handful of sentences. There's no point keeping it secret, when anyone in Winterfell could tell him it had happened. 

Peter takes her hand, gently with a hold so loose that she could pull away in an instant, if she wanted to. "It wasn't your fault either," he says, and she thinks he really means it. "How _could_ you have known any of that? How could anyone? It wasn't right and I'm glad you got out." 

She marvels at how sure he is, in passing this judgement. As if there's no reason for anyone to doubt it at all. It changes nothing, of course, because it's all in the past, but it's… nice. To have someone say it. 

"Thank you," she murmurs quietly. The fire is warm and the room is quiet and Sansa is not sure she's felt so at peace for a long time. 

The next day, they hold the War Council. All is going well and then Bran says, voice bland, "the Night King has reached Eastwatch. They are freezing the sea at the Bay of Seals and moving around the Wall." 

The room explodes into a flurry of questions. 

Sansa slips out. It's not that she isn't interested, or that she doesn't want to be involved — she is and she does — but there's still much to be done and it's true that _soldiers_ and _fighting_ are much more Jon's speciality than hers. Sansa has done what she can to _get_ them an army. 

Now she has to ensure they're ready to fight. The excess Narnian weapons have to be traded out to those likely to be on the front lines — weapons which can harm the Wights — and space has to be prepared for the wounded to evacuate to. People have to be organised, those who can fight, those who can run supplies, those who can cook or tend wounded, those who must simply hide away. Everyone has to be kept from panicking. 

"Step up the number of men cutting firewood," Sansa says to her steward. "We'll need stacks at every wall. The fires will be our only lights once the Long Night hits. We won't have time to get more once the fighting starts." 

Men scatter to obey her. 

When Sansa crosses the practice yard, she sees someone practicing archery. The woman draws an arrow, aims, fires. Slow, but steady, and every arrow hits the target near the center, clustering arrows like needles into a pincushion. 

Sansa applauds, gently. Her gloves muffle the sound, but Queen Susan turns and curtsies, as if she knew all along she had been watched. Maybe she is simply used to being the center of attention. 

"Do you mean to fight, your grace?" Sansa asks. The Queen has a quiver of arrows slung across her back. Somehow, it doesn't look out of place. Dangerous _and_ beautiful. 

"I don't _mean to_ ," Queen Susan says, smiling to offset any sharpness of her words, "for I very much dislike fighting, but I will if it comes to it." She unstrings the bow and slides it into her quiver. "I meant to ask you, Lady Sansa, where your hospital will be. I brought with me my sister’s healing cordial and will offer my services with the injured." 

"In the Great Hall," Sansa says, inviting Queen Susan to walk with her. "It's the largest space we have to convert to an infirmary. Maester Wolken will be taking charge of the wounded. I was on my way there now to see what supplies still need organising. I will introduce you." 

They talk as they walk and Queen Susan asks intelligent, practical questions and speaks kindly and shows real, personal interest in Sansa's answers. 

"We will soon be sisters, after all," she says. "Of course I wish to know who swept my brother off his feet so very quickly." 

It's a little like looking into a tarnished silver mirror — _nearly_ a reflection of herself. All Sansa can do is reply in turn, match her smile for smile and courtesy for courtesy. 

"It did not seem so very fast," Sansa says in reply, though really, Peter had been ranging North with Jon for much of the time that they had known each other. "And I am glad of this outcome." 

Queen Susan gives a pretty laugh. "Oh, do say how he managed to impress you," she says. "Did he manage some kingly deed?" 

"Besides fighting the White Walkers?" Sansa asks, smiling back. The truth is… she cannot say that there was. If anything had impressed her, it had been the small deeds — that no one had anything bad to say of him, that he would lose a fight to Brienne with a smile, that he was patient and kind. But saying anything like that feels too personal, even though Queen Susan might understand. 

Maybe _because_ Queen Susan might understand. 

But the Queen takes her silence on the matter in the wrong way and laughs again. "Oh, good lord," she says. "Don't tell me he tried poetry? I thought he'd learnt his lesson on _that_ after the merpeople princess." 

He had _not_ , and Sansa is rather wildly curious about the hinted story. "I have heard the people of Narnia have no claim to poetry," is all she says, delicately, neither confirming nor denying. 

"It is true," Queen Susan says. "Many of my suitors wrote—" and then the smile drops off her face entirely. "Well. Perhaps it is for the best," she says. "We are a plain spoken people and say what we mean, more or less. Poetry might be pleasing to the ear, but sometimes it hides more than it reveals." 

The reach the Great Hall and the conversation takes a more practical turn, to supplies and staffing and treatments. The Narnians have their own healers and medics — thankfully — which will go a long way to helping, especially as the Maester expresses some amount of concern at treating anyone who isn't human. 

With a deftness and decisiveness that Sansa admires, Queen Susan takes charge of it all, smiling calmly and presenting herself as an oasis of calm in a tempest. 

Queen Susan isn't the only one that Sansa runs into. She runs into King Edmund in the Godswood, speaking to a group of centaurs at length. 

"Your grace," she says, curtseying. "Has the council ended, then?" 

He bows back to her, then shivers and draws his cloak tight around himself. "For now, at least," he says. "I think everyone just got sick of shouting at each other. I'm sure there'll be another round or two of it to go yet." 

It's not an inaccurate description of any small council meeting, but Sansa is briefly at a loss of how to respond to it. 

King Edmund smiles wryly. "I'm sure you will get a more accurate recap from your own people," he says, "but we've settled on sending small groups to harry the main force of the enemy and hopefully prevent the full might coming against Winterfell all at once." 

"That seems wise," Sansa says, "though dangerous for them." 

"Yes, well," he says, "The Giants are particularly keen to begin fighting as soon as possible. For myself, I am keen to get somewhere slightly warmer." 

"Walk back to the castle with me," Sansa invites. "You are not enjoying our fine northern weather?" She holds out a hand to catch a smattering of snowflakes on her glove. 

He laughs. "I don't wear the cold as well as the rest of my siblings, it's true," he admits. "I remember too well the touch of the White Witch to find joy in it, even for Christmas and we're a long way from any mid-winter celebration now." 

"It is true," Sansa says, "Winter has only just begun." An off center echo of their house words. What are they supposed to say now that winter has come? 

She walks with King Edmund back to the keep and double checks that the servants are keeping the fires stoked in the rooms assigned to the Narnian monarchs. 

The next morning, Sansa spends hours kneeling in the Sept. The building is empty, damaged and dusty, likely unused since Catelyn Stark left Winterfell. When she was a child, Sansa spent many hours here, staring at the statues and stained glass windows. More hours than she ever spent in the Godswood. 

Funny, how in the realm of the Old Gods, she had prayed to the Seven and in the realm of the Faith she had prayed to the Heart Tree. 

Jon waits for her in the doorway, not crossing into a place where he was never really welcome. His brow is creased with concern as he watches her dust off her skirts, arrange the cloak on her shoulders. A Stark maiden cloak, again. Hopefully for the last time. 

"Ready?" Jon asks quietly, Ghost circling around his legs. 

Sansa manages a smile for him. "Ready," she confirms, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm and tugging him around so that he begins to escort her to the Godswood. Their people are out — northerners and Talking Animals and other Narnians — lining the streets and holding torches in the fading daylight to light their way. The procession is not usually so long but… it seems as though all of Winterfell has come out to watch her go to her wedding. 

Sansa keeps her chin up and her steps steady. People call congratulations, cheer with happiness, _celebrate_ as she passes them. They seem joyous and genuinely pleased. 

Her and Jon walk steadily towards the Godswood, passing through the trees towards the Heart Tree where Bran waits for them, with the rest of the wedding party. 

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" Bran says, voice flat and steady, perfectly to ritual and yet somehow still emotionless. Maybe she should have asked Arya to do it — or Jon and had Arya escort her. Too late now. And really… it had seemed right that Bran should be the one to speak for the Old Gods. 

"Sansa, of the House Stark," Jon says. He presses his hand over top of hers, squeezing with reassurance. "She comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?" 

And there is Peter, standing tall in the last of the sunlight. The cloak slung over his shoulders is pure gold, and all three of the Pevensies are wearing their crowns. They seem somehow out of place, out of time, in the Winterfell Godswood. Untouched and untouchable. 

Then Peter steps forward, towards her, stopping a bare arms length away. "Peter Pevensie, High King of Narnia. Who gives her?" 

"Jon Snow, King of the North. Her brother." 

Bran turns his sightless eyes over them, like a bad actor in a bad theater play. "Lady Sansa, will you take this man?" 

Sansa's mouth goes abruptly dry. She has been here before. Once married before the Seven and once married here, like this, before the Old Gods of Winterfell. In this exact spot. 

_You looked beautiful,_ Bran had said in his emotionless way, as though it had not been the most horrid days of her life. 

A time she had thought was _over._

She reaches out, hand hovering in the air. Peter catches on quickly, raising his own to gently take it, though this is not what they have rehearsed. 

"I take this man," she says, quietly. She lets go of Jon, only barely noticing as he steps away, and clasps Peter's hand in both of hers. 

King Edmund steps forward, standing beside Bran. The light is fading, and the torches of the crowd don't reach him, but he holds out a delicate cushion towards them. The vows and the rings that the Narnians had wanted to add to the ceremony. By and large, Peter had been happy to have the wedding done Winterfell style, and Sansa had been happy enough to allow him the addition. 

"High King Peter, do you take Lady Sansa as your wife?" 

"I do," Peter says, and turns his attention back to Sansa. "I, Peter Pevensie, take Sansa Stark to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part." 

He helps Sansa shed her gloves, and pulls off his own at the same time. Sansa is wearing the engagement ring he'd given her — a lovely heavy piece with square white stone and the Stark wolf sigil engraved up the sides — and he slides one of the rings onto her finger beside it. 

King Edmund gives a light cough. "Usually, I think we'd ask Sansa the same, but she's already sworn she'll take you — I'll not give her a chance to wise up and take it back. A ring, my lady?" 

There's a ripple of laughter through the crowd and Sansa takes the second ring, sliding it onto Peter's finger. It's a plain gold band, engraved with something but not heavily embellished. Plain, for a king. 

The last light of the day catches on the gold and winks off of it, then vanishes entirely; the sun setting for what Sansa knows will be the final time until the Long Night is over. What she fears will be the last time in a long while. 

"Then," King Edmund says, "by the power invested in me by Aslan, King of Beasts, son of the Emperor Beyond the Sea and king above all High Kings of Narnia… I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride." 

Peter leans forward and Sansa stretches up and they share a light, chaste brush of lips. Sansa murmurs, "with this kiss, I pledge my love," because there is no septon here to declare them married in the light of the Seven, but they have already combined two wedding rituals. Why not a third? They are the gods of her mother, however tainted they are to her by her time in the south. 

The two of them kneel for a moment, before the Heart Tree and Sansa _prays_ , quick and formless but heartfelt, that for once the Old Gods will bless her. That things will go well. That her people will be safe. 

It's a prayer she has been making frequently, lately. 

The snow seeps through the material of her dress, turning it wet around her knees and they stand again. 

"Your cloak," Jon says, quietly moving behind her, and she unclasps it from her throat, letting him carefully take it from her shoulders, folding it carefully over his arms so it doesn't drag in the snow. 

Peter swirls his golden cloak off his shoulders and across hers. The third bridal cloak she's worn is lighter and softer than she expected — it feels like it's barely there at all. 

And— 

There is a gasp from the crowd around them. The torches flicker as people hastily move back, widening a circle around them. Sansa looks around, warily and sees… 

From between the trees walks a golden lion. 

"Aslan!" Peter says, happily. A cry taken up by the other Narnians, sounding equally as glad. Peter takes her hand and squeezes gently, as if in reassurance, and Sansa can do nothing but clutch at him. 

_How?_ Surely there should be no way for anyone to get _into_ the Godswood, not without passing through Winterfell. And if there had been more visitors, then surely Sansa would have been _informed._ They wouldn't have just shown up at the wedding. 

Aslan is… large. Larger than Ghost, even. Sansa has almost become used to the Narnian creatures but there is _something_ about Aslan that seems different to them, still. She doesn't know enough about where Aslan fits into the ruling of Narnia but… _King above High Kings_ , King Edmund had said. 

Sansa manages a curtsey. "Your grace," she says. "I greet you. Welcome to Winterfell." 

Aslan dips his head towards her. "Lady Sansa," he says and his voice is a deep rumble. "My congratulations on your wedding. You have married a King of Narnia and so become a queen." 

"We had thought to have the coronation at Cair Paravel," Peter says. It was what they had discussed, and truthfully, Sansa had had no argument either way. It might have shocked her younger self, but there had been no draw in becoming a _queen_ — waiting until she visited the kingdom in question had been no hardship. 

"Once a King or Queen of Narnia, always a King or Queen of Narnia," Aslan proclaims, in a way that seems to mean something to the Narnians. 

Peter acquiesce with a bow. "Of course. Aslan, with your blessing…" He exchanges a glance with King Edmund and Sansa is relieved to see the both of them appear slightly out of sorts. Not _afraid_ or particularly _upset_ but rather like they've missed a step and aren't entirely sure how to continue on. Like being hurried into a test they're not prepared for. 

Queen Susan reaches up to her crown, but before she can remove it, the falling snow starts to gleam brightly, as if catching sun that is no longer there. Where it falls down on the ring cushion that King Edmund holds, it gathers together, glittering with light until what is left behind is a pale crown. Where Queen Susan wears golden flowers, this circlet is a snowflakes, linked together in a gentle, delicate chain. 

King Edmund lifts the cushion up and Peter takes the crown, gently settling it on Sansa's hair. 

Aslan's voice raises, carrying well across the crowd and probably further still. "To the crisp northern snow, I give you: Queen Sansa the Beloved." 

"Long live Queen Sansa!" the Narnians call energetically, as if this sudden coronation only delights them. "Long live King Peter!" 

Unbidden, tears prick at the corners of her eyes. _I will make them love me,_ Sansa thinks, just as she had all those years ago. The flaw she had seen in the way Queen Cersei ruled, the basis for her own means and methods. To have it _seen_ and _titled_ — 

To have it acknowledged, as if people really would love her as their Queen— 

But Aslan is not finished yet, speaking on so that the crowds cheering falls silent. "Once a King or Queen of Narnia, always a King or Queen of Narnia. And, now, I ask you this: are you the rightful ruler of Winterfell?" 

She can hear the intake of breath from Peter and the way his hand clutches tight to hers. 

The question… sounds like a trap. How, or why, or what it will prove or disprove, she does not know. But Sansa smiles softly and sweetly. Her words are weapons she knows well, and her manners are her defences. 

"My father was the Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North," she says, "and his father and his father before him, all the way back to the first King in the North, Bran the Builder who built it from nothing and declared that _there must always be a Stark in Winterfell._ When it was lost to the Boltons, the combined forces of the North and the Vale retook the castle on my command. And… my brother, King Jon Snow is the King in the North as declared by every northern bannerman, who named me lady of the castle, to manage it in his stead. By blood, by conquest and by _choice_ , Winterfell is mine." 

"She is the rightful ruler of Winterfell," Peter says, as if the words have more weight than just a _claim._ "Aslan. Can you—" 

She has never seen a lion smile, but perhaps Aslan does, as he lowers his head. "Well met, Lady of Winterfell. This place is not Narnia, O High King, and as you have no claim upon this land, nor do I. But your Queen… Perhaps. Perhaps there is strength that I may lend. Winter will come, yes, but it will not be without end." 

He bends and breathes on the face of the Heart Tree and Sansa tastes snow, feels the castle in her bones, can see the Heart Tree weeping blood from it's carved face. She feels at once both more and less, somehow shaken from _herself_ and wonders if this is what Bran and Arya feel, dealing as they do with magic. 

Peter's hand in hers is what anchors her. His clear joy and trust is what makes it possible to feel something other than _fear_ when she doesn't know what is happening. 

Then… Aslan is gone. Slipping between the trees and vanishing as quickly as he had come, leaving Sansa with a million questions and a lot of confused bannermen. 

"I guess you didn't need 'the power invested in me by Aslan' to bless your union after all," King Edmund says, breaking the silence with what sounds like a jest. "Not when Aslan was going to show up and do it himself. He could have shown up earlier and saved me the speech." 

"You barely said anything," Peter retorts, even _sounding_ like he's rolling his eyes. 

It works to break the silence, to set the tone — the Narnians even laugh at them, cheering and chittering like they have witnessed something good and grand. 

Jon clears his throat, drawing closer to them. "Could you… explain… what just happened?" 

"There are rules to magic," Peter says, slowly. "And not ones that I understand fully or well. Aslan is powerful, yes, but there are many limits on what he can do, or where. When the White Witch was Queen in Narnia he was driven from it, until she broke the Stone Table and we were crowned the rightful Kings and Queens. I think— I think Lady Sansa welcoming him, as the rightful ruler of Winterfell allowed him some chance to work magic here. What magic… what it will do… I cannot say. But it is help that I will be glad to have in the coming battle." 

It is _unnerving,_ is what it is. Sansa is not sure she _likes_ it. But she supposes she has signed up to it, this time. Sworn her vows, to husband and people both. 

"If it will help," she says, uncertainly. "We can most certainly _use_ help. But I think I would like it if you told me more about… this magic of Narnia and Aslan." 

"What I know, I know from lived experience," Peter says, with a slight grimace. "It is hard to put into words — I scarce know where to begin. But I will try." 

The crowd begins to leave the Godswood, heading back to the Great Hall — for warmth and for the wedding feast. But for some reason… the crowd stalls and piles up in the inner courtyard of the castle. 

Sansa exchanges wary glances with her siblings and pushes her way forward. She has had enough surprises for today yet finds herself caught unawares _again._ And like before, Peter does not appear nearly as off guard by the unexpected visitor as she is. 

"Father Christmas!" 

The old, white bearded man standing in the midst of the crowd, looks up. There is a sled behind him, harnessed to some… some _deer creatures._ "Your majesties," he says, bowing. He looks cheerful — an old lordly grandfather or Maester. "You have my dearest congratulations! Peter, I have contributed a little something towards the wedding feast for you." 

Peter laughs and the crowd gives them room to move close. "What are you doing here?" he asks. "I didn't think the North celebrated Christmas." 

The old man — Father Christmas? Is that a name or title? — winks at him. "Not as such," he says, "but it's a terrible thing to have a hard winter and no Christmas, so I took the chance to stop by and spread a little joy while there was magic in the air." He reaches into his sled — _how_ had he driven it into Winterfell? — and draws out a basket filled with cloth. "Queen Sansa, I have for you a sewing kit with the finest of materials: spider silk and firerat fur and moonlight lace, so that you may forge the strongest armour for yourself and those you love." 

Cautiously, Sansa takes the basket, surprised at the weight of it. She curtseys. "I thank you, ser," she say, "but you did not need to." 

Surely, it is a present so neatly tailored to her tastes and skills and yet… now, with an impending invasion, a castle crowded with refugees and winter setting in, sewing pretty dresses is one of the last things she is thinking of. 

The old man touches a finger to the side of his nose and smiles as if they are sharing a secret. "Yes, it is so. A good queen will see her people fed before she sits to feast. That is my second gift to you." He chuckles to himself, sounding pleased, and then turns onwards. "Ah, Queen Susan! For you, I have the light of a star caught in a sky gem!" 

He presents a necklace that glows so brightly the courtyard seems nearly daylight, though it causes no trouble to look directly upon Queen Susan and the necklace gleaming on her neck. To King Edmund he passes an old looking bound leather book that is received with a smile. 

And Sansa stands there for a moment longer and watches as he passes out more gifts — to those from Narnia and those from Winterfell. Toys and food and cloth and jewelry and paper. Knives and daggers. 

Kingly gifts, given to one and all. 

"Brienne," she murmurs, quietly enough to make sure she is not overheard. "Make sure there are guards. I don't want any riots. Or theft. Ensure everyone gets to keep the gifts they're given." 

Brienne nods and moves away, carefully pushing through the crowd to pass word on. She will see it done, and Sansa can only hope it is enough. She knows well enough how quickly the smallfolk can turn to riots — there have been none in Winterfell but the people are stressed and cold and hungry and afraid… it would not take much to step wrongly and ignite one. 

Sansa calls out to those who have already received gifts, "come! To the feast! It grows cold while we wait!" and leads them towards the Great Hall. 

Inside is warm and bright and — 

The spread of food is far more than Sansa _knows_ the kitchens prepared for them. She planned the menu, decided what they could and could not spare even for a celebration. This is not that. Helplessly, she heads for her seat, hoping that it's another magic _thing_ and not something that has depleted their resources. 

At the head table is a cake shaped like their two crowns, entwined. 

"Will you cut the cake with me, my queen?" Peter asks her, as they walk the length of the hall towards it. "It's good luck." 

"Where did it _come from?_ " Sansa asks, bewildered. She clutches her basket of cloth and feels very adrift. "How did that man— why is he here?" 

"It is what he _is_ ," Peter says, kindly but unhelpfully. "Father Christmas is the giver of gifts. He marks the midwinter. It was said that the worst crime of the Hundred Year Winter was that it was always winter but never christmas — that there was no point where people could rejoice that the worst was over. The first time he visited was when we arrived to defeat the White Witch. He gave me this sword and shield, gave Lucy her healing cordial and Susan her horn." 

"And these gifts," Sansa says, and struggles to phrase it. "They are _gifts_ without… without duplicity? Without repayment?" 

"Yes, of course," Peter says, so unthinkingly quickly. "They're just… gifts." He smiles reassuringly at her. "Freely given, for the joy of it. You need not worry." 

She can hardly _stop_ worrying. But perhaps this explains something of the strangeness of the Narnians and their ways — to be so used to receiving things freely, no payment or trickery, for gods and godlike beings to step down and walk among them for no reason but _because._ If they are used to days like this then no wonder they seem so strange to Sansa. 

The food is warm and filling and the music that flows through the Great Hall is filled with joy and laughter. When they cut the cake, Peter's hand atop hers on the knife, the snowflake crown is made of lemon cake. 

Later, when she is showing King Edmund the steps to one of the northern dances, he says, "You aren't wrong to question the gifts, Queen Sansa." 

  
Sansa misses a step, but given the number of four legged creatures on the floor and the Wildlings dancing in their own styles, it's hardly going to be noticed. She would prefer this happy chaos over any number of sweetly choreographed but terrified southern balls, anyway. 

"I did not mean to cause offense," she begins carefully. 

"You aren't wrong," he repeats, and leads her through a swirling turn. "Father Christmas is known to us so we can safely vouch that no harm will come from him. And Aslan too. But you are correct to think that not all gifts are given in good faith." 

"That sounds like the voice of experience, your grace," she says, just a tad archly. 

"It is," he responds, unashamed but unsmiling. "I trusted where I should not have and took what I should not have and paid dearly for both. But I think you are too clever to make such a mistake, and Peter will not lead you astray." 

It disquiets her just when she felt like she had a hold on the situation, but the warning — if that was what it was — is not something she would ignore either. 

She dances and dances, with Peter and with Jon and Arya and Queen Susan, and spins in giddy circles with Grim and Growl and Ghost and the other Talking Animals. It's… fun. And when the night grows long and she feels tiredness weigh her down and the drinking becomes heavier and more rowdy, she takes Peter by the hand and leads him from the Great Hall and towards their rooms. 

* * *

The next day does not dawn — it remains as dark as the night before. But the morning bells rings and Sansa takes to carrying a torch to light her way. 

"It's the darndest thing," Maester Wolkan says. "I've sent people to check them all. If I hadn't seen it myself I wouldn't have believed my eyes." He shakes his head. 

Sansa stares at the grainery, the second of Winterfell's many food stores that they have visited this morning. It is full and it hadn't been yesterday. Yesterday, Sansa had worried endlessly over the cost of the wedding feast, over how to feed her people for as long as possible. 

"A gift," she says, quietly, staring at the grain that means none of her people will starve. _A good queen will see her people fed before she sits to feast._

It is… a weight lifted from her shoulders. 

"Make sure the new totals are counted," she directs. "And send them to my solar. But I think we may safely say there will be sufficient food for winter." 

There are many checks to be done and things to be organised, but Sansa also finds herself taking the basket of cloth and thread to her solar and stitching while she thinks. It is a comforting habit and she likes the productivity of it. The black firerat fur seems always warm to her touch, as if it makes its own heat, the silk runs through her fingers like water and the lace seems to glow with its own light. She makes herself a new cloak, embroidered with Stark wolves and snowflakes that seem to shimmer as she moves. 

Around the castle, the preparations for the siege and attack from the White Walkers cast a tense gloom — and the unfading darkness does not help. 

The Long Night has begun. 

Fires burn constantly, giving what light and warmth they can. Many of the men at arms are veterans of battles but even they seem uneasy and affected by the tension in the air. 

Somewhat idly, Sansa wonders what the south thinks of the darkness — she hopes it has disrupted whatever plans Cersei has. 

They ready themselves. Then they wait. 

Bran keeps watch on the Night King and the approach of the White Walkers, which alleviates the tension in some ways and increases it in others. 

"Last Hearth has engaged," he says, offhand one day, as if it's nothing more than a comment on the weather. "The Giants at Long Lake have made them split their forces," he says, the next. 

"That's what we wanted," Jon says, grim but steady. "And the Night King?" 

"He's coming for me," Bran says. And then he goes silent again for a long, long time, vanished into his visions or warged into some other creature far away. 

Then, too soon, "they have crossed the White Knife." 

"They'll be here tomorrow, then," Jon says. "Or. By the morning bell, at least." Given the lack of dawn, 'morning' means little and the bells are the only way to tell the time now. Everyone in Winterfell has been relegated to shifts, trying to keep everyone fully rested and ready for a long protracted battle. 

"So we hold the Wights off until the Night King shows up, lure him out, then take him out," Jaime Lannister says, as if the whole crazy plan is simple and straightforward. 

"Simple," Brienne says, as if it is possible. 

By the morning bell, the sentries have spotted the incoming wights. Within the hour, Winterfell is ready. 

"Be safe," Sansa says, to Jon, to Peter, to Arya as they all head for the walls, armed and armoured and ready to fight. 

"Battles are ugly things," Queen Susan remarks, watching her brothers go. She has her bow slung across her back but heads for the infirmary instead. Her steady hands fold bandages and prepare medicines, waiting for the influx of wounded about to arrive. 

Sansa waits with her. 

The hours after that are long and confused. She knows little of what happens at the walls, rumours and half fragmented information passed along with the flow of wounded. _The wights have climbed the wall_ — _no, the fire forced them back down — they've run out of boiling oil on the south wall — the frost giants have thrown boulders at the ramparts — the gryphons are dropping boulders on_ them _—_

At times it seems there is a lull — or the wounded do not make it as far as the Great Hall — and at times such a rush that they cannot keep up with it. 

Sansa works until she is too tired to continue, stalks the War Room until no one can tell her anything more about the state of things, sleeps restlessly and ineffectually. Then she does it again. And again. 

At some point, Arya finds her. She has blood splattered across her cheek and Sansa reaches for bandages. 

"I'm not injured," Arya says impatiently. There are deep circles beneath her eyes and her sleeve is burnt leaving her forearm bare. "Have you seen Bran?" 

"He should be in the war room," Sansa says. Bran has been their best source of information — the only one who truly seems to know all that is going on. 

"Well, he isn't," Arya snaps. "I was just there. He's _gone._ " 

Sansa stares at her in horror, then jerks to her feet. "The— The Godswood." Why he would go there… _how_ he would get there… those things she doesn't know. But that's the only place Bran visits, these days. And she cannot imagine anywhere else he would be. 

It's also the least defended. The Godswood is within the walls of Winterfell, true, but it's its own separate bailey, and the one they've given the least defence to. It simply takes too much space and they've allocated soldiers to the places where people _are_ not empty acres of woodland. 

Arya curses. The two of them make for the door. Sansa almost doesn't notice as Queen Susan falls into step with them, face equally grim. 

"The _plan_ ," Sansa says frostily, as if she can change what _is,_ "was for him to stay in the castle." 

"Not run off to play _bait_ ," Arya finishes, and both of them know now that this is what Bran meant to do all along, ever since he'd said that the Night King would come for him. He'd simply left it out of all the planning and discussions. Avoided the arguments, knowing that his siblings would not look kindly on leaving him defenceless. 

"I'm going to kill him," Sansa says. 

"Not if I get him first," Arya says. 

They share a look. _Brothers._

Queen Susan's necklace lights the way but Sansa grabs a torch anyway. Holding something solid feels reassuring and fire is the only weapon she can wield against the wights. She has no sword or dagger or bow — and would not know how to use them if she did. 

The Godswood is ominously quiet, as they run through it to find Bran is still and silent beneath the Heart Tree. 

"Bran," Sansa says, panting. "We need to go back. Come on." She moves around him, as if to push his chair back down the path. 

"It's too late," Bran says, unperturbed. "He's here." 

And the very far wall collapses. The trees around them shake. It feels cold, colder, as if breaching the walls has allowed the warmth to drain out of the Godswood, what little of it there was. 

Sansa's mouth goes dry. 

Wights pour in through the opening, filter through the trees towards them. Arya moves in front of them all, her single thin sword in one hand and her Valyrian dagger in the other, seeming an entirely insufficient defence. 

"Run," she says, bravely. "Go. Get help. I'll hold them off." 

Sansa shakes her head. 

"There is no help," Bran says, implacable. As if this was inevitable, all along. 

And the Night King walks through the crowd of wights. 

He should be _more_ , Sansa thinks. Taller, bigger, _something_ , that justifies the fear they have of him. But she trembles anyway, because she knows well enough that a thing that looks like a man is the most dangerous thing of all. 

"Help will _always_ come," Queen Susan says, firmly. She grasps the horn at her belt and puts it to her lips. It sounds and sounds and sounds, shaking the canopy, the branches, the trunks, the _roots_ — and no, Sansa realises the trees are _moving._ Branches are reaching down, twisting and bending and whipping through the air, striking at the wights. 

"The Heart Tree!" Arya says, ducking backwards. 

The weirwood is _alive._ More trees are moving now, striking down wights and lashing out, turning the whole forest into a confusing maze of movement. 

"The dyads are awake!" Susan drops her horn, satisfied, and draws her bow. "The torch!" she cries, and as Sansa thrusts it in her direction, lights an arrow off it, aiming between the branches to strike a wight. The wight goes up in flames — impossibly flammable, as if it's whole body was just pitch and tar — and drops smouldering to the ground. 

_The forest will burn_ , Sansa thinks deliriously as more Queen Susan shoots more wights with firey arrows, as branches _do_ catch fire and leaves crackle and burn. There is so much smoke in the air now that the air is as white as the ground. 

Arya shouts a battle cry and charges with her sword. The Night King batters her back — throws Arya into the darkness, her sword skittering from her hand into a pile of flaming wights — and shatters the weirwood branches that strike at him, leaving nothing but kindling scattering the ground that freezes even further with every step he takes. 

He makes his way implacable, towards Bran. 

Sansa throws herself across her brother, her new made cloak — _a lady's armour_ — the only shield she has for them both. She feels things hit it, but only softly, nothing with any more force than raindrops scattering across her back. 

And then Ghost barrels out of the darkness, three Kings following closely on his tail. And for a moment, Sansa thinks that will be enough. They clear a space, fighting the wights back far enough for breathing room. 

The two Narnians make a deadly team, and Jon splits off, swinging Longclaw with desperate viciousness at the Night King. He strikes true— 

And is repelled, thrown back just like Arya had been, into the flaming wights, sword falling from his hand into the snow. 

"Jon!" 

She can see him. She wills him to get back up. 

And he does. 

Sansa sees him stagger to his feet. His cloak is burning, all his clothes aflame but he doesn't stop to extinguish them. He reaches for something — not Longclaw, something closer — and draws from the flaming wights a different sword, red hot and on _fire._

"In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword," Bran says, and for once he sounds _shocked_. He sounds like _Bran._ "And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him." 

The Night King stops. He stops approaching Bran and he turns back towards Jon, standing there with a flaming sword — 

A sword Sansa recognises, because her sister dropped it only moments before. Arya's sword. Needle. 

And Jon lunges forward across the snow and ice, and drives it through the Night Kings heart. It _sizzles_ and smokes, hot metal into ice, and there is a gust of cold wind that puts out all the fires and a great and awful scream— 

And then the Night King collapses ash. The wights stop and still and become nothing but dead corpses. There is a heavy silence, like the entire world is holding its breath. 

_Is it over?_ Sansa thinks and cannot quite believe it. _Just like that?_

Arya limps back out of the sudden darkness, one arm clutched tight to her chest but otherwise undamaged. Still alive. "Alright," she says, "but that was _my sword_ and I could have done that." 

Jon looks down at his unburnt hand, where it had been clasped around hot steel, and manages a wobbling smile. "You forgot what I told you," he says. "You're supposed to stab them with the pointy end." 

"I was getting there," Arya bites back, no venom at all. She leans against him, heavily, and Queen Susan moves gracefully towards them with her healing cordial, offering aid. 

Sansa rises to her feet, pulling herself up from where she has collapsed over Bran, and icicles like spears tumble to the ground as she shakes out her cloak. _A ladies armour_ , she thinks near hysterically, unable to quite believe it. 

Peter sheaths his sword and draws near her, offering her his hand. Sansa gratefully takes it to steady herself. 

"Are you alright?" he murmurs quietly. As if Sansa has been the one in the most danger, instead of tucked safely away in the infirmary until now. 

"I'm fine," she says. "I'm fine. Is it… is it over?" 

She doesn't know why she asks, what she expects Peter to know that she can't see herself. 

He nods, gravely, as if her question is sensible. "The Night King is dead. The wights have stopped fighting. If there is more to be done, we shall find it and do it, but the greatest of the threat seems to be defeated." 

Sansa looks around, at Jon and Arya and Bran, her family together under the Heart Tree of Winterfell where they belonged. Sansa feels something settle in her heart, some fear vanquished, some yearning satisfied. _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._ They have survived. Winter has come, and will remain for some time yet, but it has not defeated them. 

"It's _over_ ," she says. 

And for the first time in nearly a week — for the first time since Sansa's wedding — the sun rises, pale yellow light spilling into the Godswood. 

The Long Night is over. 

Sansa holds tightly to her husband's hand and smiles into the dawn. 


End file.
